


The Shadowy Shore

by callmejude, Florentium



Series: Summer Offerings [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awkwardness, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Boats and Ships, Canon-Typical Age of Consent, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Sexism, Consensual Non-Consent, Cultural Differences, Dissociation, Dissociation during sex, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Fear of Discovery, Feasts as Diplomacy, Feudalism, Gender Roles, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Ironborn Culture & Customs, Late Night Conversations, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Minor Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Mutism, Overhearing Sex, Queer Themes, Rape Fantasy, Reminiscing, Romance, Trust Issues, emotional immaturity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 97,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentium/pseuds/Florentium
Summary: At the start of the game of thrones, Theon and Jon come out of hiding and return to Pyke.
Relationships: Alannys Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Jon Snow & Yara Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy & Yara Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow
Series: Summer Offerings [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1080639
Comments: 97
Kudos: 155





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> So, this really got away from me. This started as an AU that was mostly an excuse to write pre-series Jon/Theon smut that then grew a plot and wandered away. 
> 
> There are many previous works in this series, but most of them are only smut, and can be skipped. All that is pertinent to understanding the story in this AU is that Jon and Theon's childhood rivalry blossomed into an uneasy romance when they were teenagers, and when Euron Greyjoy rebels against the throne, they flee Winterfell to prevent Theon being condemned to the Night's Watch. After a year and a half on the run, they are returning to the Iron Islands.
> 
> This has been a year in the making, and a terrible year at that, and I so do hope you all enjoy.

"Darkness, you are gentler than my lover, his flesh was sweaty and panting,  
I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me.

My hands are spread forth, I pass them in all directions,  
I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are journeying."

—Walt Whitman, "The Sleepers"

~

Despite everything, it is Pyke they return to.

The voyage is costly. To fund their sailing, Jon sells both their swords, castle-forged and still sharp. Also, they sell the silver cloak pin that Robb had given them the night they fled, with its engraved direwolf head emblazoned on a heavy disc. Neither of them had ever worn it, but both had treasured it throughout their journey, the only true keepsake they had retained of Winterfell. It fetches the bulk of their funds.

Pyke has been rebuilt. Not so tall and grand as Theon remembers, so he claims, but Jon is still impressed. The castle is built high against the ocean out on soaring cliffs and broken, jagged sea stacks, the furthest towers joined by nothing more than swinging rope bridges. Below, the waves pound and batter the cliffs, spraying seafoam high up onto the headland. The seaward side of the towers are crusted in centuries' worth of white-green buildup of salt and lichen.

They are escorted by Theon’s cousin Ser Harras and their Harlaw guard, though Jon does not feel protected by them. If it is decided that they are pretenders, Jon has no doubt their guard will just as soon become their captors. 

Mercy is a sin to the ironborn, Theon has said.

They are led into a long, smokey hall, lined on either wall by tall clerestory windows. The floor of the hall is sunken, and Jon and Theon must descend a few steps to approach their host.

At the far end of the hall is a woman seated on a block of glossy black stone. Her throne is carved into the likeness of a kraken, its great mantle and fins aloft over her head, and its long, tentacled arms spiralling and folding to form her seat and armrests. Two great braziers burn bright on either side of her, casting a slick yellow light over the inky throne. The stone of it is unlike any material Jon has ever seen.

The woman upon the throne is not dressed like a woman at all, seated like a man with her legs crossed over her knee. With her dark hair cut short by her ears and dressed in doeskin trousers, Jon is shocked by how much she looks like Theon.

“My Lady Greyjoy,” announces the Harlaw cousin from the top of the steps, “at your request, I bring you the man claiming to be your father’s son, Theon Greyjoy, and his companion, claiming to be the natural son of the Warden of the North, Jon Snow.”

“Is that you, baby brother?” her low voice calls from the gloomy end of the hall.

She rises from her black seat, an axe belted to her hip as if it were a sword. She descends the steps of her throne to the sunken floor of the hall.

Theon halts a few yards from her. Jon does the same, a few steps behind him.

Legs astance, Yara Greyjoy folds her arms across her chest. “Thirteen long years it’s been since I’ve seen my brother.” 

“Twelve,” Theon corrects.

She seems pleased with that. “Last I ever saw you was on the wharves at Lordsport, when they sent you away with the mainlanders. Skinny little boy. Never faltered as they carted you off.”

A tendon tenses in Theon’s jaw, and he shifts his weight on his feet. “I cried for my mother as the northerners took me away. My father would not look at me for his shame.”

His sister snorts, “Bawled like a stuck hog.”

“Are you convinced, Yara?”

“I am. Could see it was you from the way you scowled. Same little pinched mouth you’ve always had.” She smiles a bit cruelly. A smile like Theon’s.

Theon does not share in her humour. Says solemnly, “You have my gratitude for receiving me, sister.”

“Gratitude?” repeats Lady Greyjoy. “You _have_ been among the mainlanders too long, baby brother.”

Jon notes how Theon bristles at that.

Yara Greyjoy unfolds her arms and clasps her hands behind her back, considers her brother with an appraising eye. “Last we’d had word, you’d escaped captivity during our uncle's rebellion and were lost in the North. More than a year. Rumours had you being sighted everywhere from brothels in Oldtown to the court of the Prince of Pentos, though it would seem none of them had any truth, after all. But sailors do love their gossip. Where _have_ you found refuge for these last two years?”

“Braavos,” says Theon, “disguised as a commoner.”

“And now you are here, after such a long delay. Come to take your rightful place on our father’s chair?”

Around the grey hall, the ironborn guardsmen, both of Pyke and Harlaw, grip their lances a little more firmly, anticipating Theon’s answer.

To his credit, though, Theon does not hesitate. “No,” he answers, “I have no interest in the Seastone Chair. It was your forces that defeated our uncle, and it was you that was chosen by the kingsmoot to rule. I am not here to contest your claim as Lord of the Iron Islands. You won our father’s seat by the iron price.”

There is open suspicion on Yara’s face. “Then what are you doing here, brother? Grew tired of begging on Braavosi canals?”

“In part.”

The black Seastone Chair looming behind her, Yara awaits his explanation in silence.

Theon continues, “The Starks imprisoned me on the king's order when word of our uncle’s treachery and rebellion came down. The king wouldn’t kill me for fear of turning you and the rest of the loyalist ironborn against the Throne, but neither would he back my claim or risk losing me as a hostage in the case that our uncle prevailed. So rather, he ordered me to take the black in exchange for my life. Once I had renounced my claim as Lord of the Iron Islands, I would no longer be a… a complication no matter who emerged the victor. I escaped to Braavos before being made to take my vows.”

“And you did not return to avenge your father’s murder.”

“I was penniless and without allies. I had no means to reach the Iron Islands, no host or army to bring with me.”

“So now that the war is won and the blood washed away you at last managed to book passage home. Do the ships stop working in Braavos?”

“No ironborn house came for me,” Theon contends in a firm voice, “not one. None contested my sentence to the Night’s Watch. None offered protection or refuge. I was alone, and surrounded by mainlanders sworn to destroy me. I survived the North, I survived the cutthroats of Braavos, with the aid of no one but myself. You paid the iron price for our father’s seat, sister, and I have paid the iron price for my freedom.”

That, at last, seems to win some respect from his sister. Her scowl softens. Yara Greyjoy tilts her chin and regards her brother with a thoughtful gaze. 

At that moment, Lady Greyjoy’s gaze slides across to Jon, just over Theon’s shoulder. “No one but yourself, eh, little brother?”

Theon spins to face Jon, as if he’d forgotten he was there at all. They look at one another for a beat, and Jon does not know if he is meant to speak.

“Jon Snow has been my only companion,” Theon turns back to his sister. “It was with his help that I escaped Winterfell and the North.”

Yara comes around her brother and stands in front of Jon, looks him up and down with the same surveying stare. “So you are the bastard of Winterfell, then?”

The bait is obvious and Jon does not stoop to meet it. “Jon Snow, my lady.”

“And so tell me, Jon Snow, why should I not clap you in fetters, throw you in a cell, and ransom you back to your father?”

“Of course, my lady, it would be your right to do so, but I doubt my lord father will offer you anything but curses for my ransom.”

"It is said he favours you as if you were his trueborn son."

"Lord Stark favours honest deeds. I am quite certain, after aiding your brother, that I have lost his favour for good this time."

“You betrayed his order — betrayed the king’s order for an enemy of war. I’d expect your father didn’t like that.”

“Neither do I, my lady.” Her gaze is searing, and Jon tries not to squirm beneath it.

“Jon is here as my guest, sister,” Theon interjects, “I’ll not see him mistreated.”

“Your guest?” scoffs Yara. “Are these your lands, is this your holdfast, to extend such hospitality? You bring a bastard into our father’s house — the son of the man who helped send our brothers to the grave, and demand he be treated as a guest? You have a misplaced entitlement, little brother.”

Theon draws himself up. “If we are unwelcome in your hall, then we will return to Ten Towers.”

“You’ll go nowhere without my leave,” Yara snaps.

“We came unarmed to show our goodwill,” bristles Theon.

“A poor decision if you intend to defy my command.”

“Yara…” he says then, “are we to be your prisoners here?”

“Prisoners? No. But I do not yet permit you to leave. You and I will be speaking further of your journeys here from the Narrow Sea, in the days hence. You are bold to return here now, brother, and perhaps a fool for it, but you have made your case to me. I’ll have Helya see you to comfortable rooms and a warm bath sent to you.”

“And Jon?” presses Theon.

A knowing sort of smirk crosses her face at her brother’s persistence. “Your bastard friend will be shown to a room. At the very least, I owe him the dubious thanks of returning you to us.”

Outside the high windows, the rain batters on the glass, on the roof of the hall. Far below, the churning roar of the sea drones. Even with the iron braziers blazing, the damp is penetrating. Shivering, Theon tucks into the fur collar of his cloak. Yara stands in her quilted doublet and tunic, unbothered. 

“You have my thanks for hospitality once again, sister,” offers Theon, hoping that he seems grateful and not grovelling. “We are at your service.”

“My service has not suffered without your favour. We shall speak on it in the coming days, and find some use for you.” Lady Yara inclines her head, addressing the head of their escort party behind them. “And you, cousin Harras, you have my gratitude for seeing my wayward little brother home to me. You and your men shall be put up with comfort as well, before you sail home to Harlaw.”

The young knight in his black enamel plate armour nods. “Well and good to be hosted in your hall once again, Lady Greyjoy.”

“Your southern manners do lighten the gloom.”

He returns her barb gamely, “It must fall to someone to hone and polish this savage island.”

“Ha! Polish Pyke? You'll find true iron never glints, cousin. You lot on Harlaw do enjoy your refinement.”

“No less an ironborn for it.” Ser Harras rests a black gauntlet on the hilt of his sword. A large round moonstone was set within the pommel, milky pale blue. A Valyrian steel blade that had been reaved in a faraway land two hundred years ago by Theon’s Greyjoy ancestors. How it came to be in another house’s possession, Jon does not know.

He and Theon are shown to the Bloody Keep. Large and square, it is the largest structure of the castle, standing atop the islet nearest to the headland. They must cross a short stone arch bridge to reach it. Jon looks over the railing, but the cliffs and foundations are lost in the mist below. As if the castle itself were floating upon the mist. To Theon, a suite of large rooms is furnished, though they are in a sorry state of neglect, dusty and chilly. The braziers and hearth had been lit, but the damp was still noticeable.

The room provided to Jon is little more than a cell. Their cabin on the cog they’d sailed on had been roomier.

The thrall accompanying him lights the coals of the room’s one brazier. Jon sets down his pack on the musty straw bed. The sea chest that contains the rest of their belongings will be sent to Theon, Jon imagines.

“Dinner and a bath will be sent to you, m’lord,” the thrall girl mumbles once her task is done. Jon thanks her and she slips away.

The bathwater is lukewarm and the meal is a thick stew of clams and mussels. Jon is grateful for both. He scrubs the travel and salt from his skin and hair and eats the stew by the brazier as he dries.

There is one small window in the cell, high and small beneath a pointed arch. It is too high to catch a view of the sea, but Jon can hear it, beating endlessly against the cliffs far below. Living a year in Braavos, sailing more than a month at sea, the rhythmic pounding of the waves is as familiar to Jon now as the northland itself.

Eating his meal, Jon considers the dank bed with a little distaste. The mattress is stale and the linens threadbare and moth-eaten. Aboard their ship from Oldtown, he and Theon had worn nothing at all to bed, warm enough sharing each other’s heat at sea. Now, seeing his new sleeping place, Jon regrets not packing nightclothes.

Instead, he dresses in a clean tunic and spreads his fur-lined cloak over the bed. Despite the damp and the cold of the room, laying his head down is a comfort. Both he and Theon had worried themselves sick over going to Pyke, but it would seem their gamble has been rewarded, at least for now, at least for a night’s rest.

Though he longs to, Jon won’t go find Theon, not tonight. It will not do to be seen skulking in and out of one another’s rooms so soon. Better to not give the ironborn further reason to mistrust Theon.

The sound of the rain and sea far below envelopes Jon’s sense as he closes his eyes. He had grown accustomed to the sounds of the tides and shore in Braavos—the cries of the seabirds, the creaking of timber ships—but the rough swells here on the Iron Islands were wild and resounding, a low drone always in the backdrop, no matter where you stood. Despite the roughness of the lands, there was a brutal, devastating sort of beauty to be found here, as there was in a wide northern moor blanketed in new snowfall. And it is clear, the ironborn love their barren, rocky islands just as the northman in Jon loves the cold, snowy wolfswood.

Smiling privately, Jon tucks his face into the wolf fur lining his cloak, the last little bit of the North he still carries. Despite the exhaustion of travel, a quiver of excitement tremors through him. What the Iron Islands hold for them, Jon doesn’t know, but with the promise of it all, he can’t help but allow a little crack of hope to spread in his heart.


	2. Theon

It’s a day and a night before Yara sends for him.

It’s a busy day, at least. Early on his first morning returned to Pyke, a serving girl wakes Theon with a meal of fried cod cakes with jam and bread. Ravenous, he eats it all. The journey had not been particularly grueling, but after the simmering enmity in the audience before his sister the previous night, Theon had slept like the dead and awoken sore and hungry. 

By midmorning, a clothier comes and fits him for new clothes. The clothier’s little apprentice scurries around disconcertingly, poking and prodding indecently with his knotted cord, measuring Theon’s legs, shoulders, chest, arms, moving and turning him with utter liberty. Theon is glad when they leave.

After, he bathes. He bathes for what must be an hour or more. Until the servant must rekindle the brazier beneath the tin tub that keeps the water wam. They bring him freshwater even, a luxury. Most ironborn bathe in brine, all but the most refined highborn women. Theon cannot decide if his sister sending him freshwater is a courtesy or an insult, but he is too grateful for the warm bath to care too much. There will be other insults from Yara before he sees this through. Bathwater will hardly be the worst of them. 

So he soaks in the steaming bath, combing out his hair with soap and oil, washing the dirt out from under his nails. At one point, he thinks he dozes. 

It is then, in the late afternoon, after having washed and redressed in fresh clothes, that Theon decides to brave the castle and find Jon.

But the guards posted at his door turn him back. “Lady Greyjoy will call upon you soon, m’lord” one assures, “she asks that you be confined to quarters until then.”

Theon balks. “And if I refuse?”

The one guard looks to his companion and shrugs. “We are ordered to keep you confined to your rooms, m’lord.”

They would lock him in, Theon realizes. 

Bristling, he bites his tongue and slams the heavy door. 

Fuming, he whiles away the evening hours meticulously inspecting the chambers he has been afforded. Three rooms, with a large hearth in each. Black granite krakens carved above them upon the mantel pieces, their rough-hewn arms spread around the fire. Before the largest, in the central room, the huge white pelt of some animal spread out on the floor. Perhaps an ice bear, or maybe even a massive white wildcat of some far off place. Theon does not know. But the fur is thick and plush and pleasant to sit upon with some cushions and wine to soak in the warmth of the fire. Also in the central room is a large carved desk of oak or ash and a wall of empty bookcases. A thrall has left a censer of sweetflag and balsam poplar burning upon the desk. It helps to drive out the scent of damp. The bedchamber is off the central room with a canopy bed and a cedar chest at its foot. The bedding is old but seems neither too stale nor moth-eaten. Still, it is clear that not a soul has dwelt in these rooms for years. 

It has been lonely at Pyke, that much is plain. This castle could house a hundred men comfortably, but for these ten years past, only his father and sister had dwelt within these halls after his mother had gone to Ten Towers. And his sister hardly at all, if the tales of her roving are even half true. Yara had spent the ten year summer up and down the Narrow Sea, raiding corsairs upon the Stepstones, sailing as far as Volantis and the Summer Isles. Proving herself upon the deck of a longship in her youth, Yara too had been away. Theon imagines his father, grey and weathered as he never saw him, haunting the empty halls of his castle. A lonely, defeated man.

There is pity in Theon’s heart for his father. Though surely his father would strike him if he knew it. The ironborn have no want of pity, he would say, they are not pitiful. But then, Lord Balon’s own prideful defiance had seen him only to a bended knee. 

A sad end to his father. The conquered ironborn, murdered by his own brother.

Part of Theon does wish he had been able to aid Yara in the war against their uncle. If only because there would have been great pleasure in landing an arrow in Euron Greyjoy’s throat himself.

But another, darker part of Theon, doubts that he could have the bravery to face his uncle in battle.

Night falls without word from his sister, and Theon sleeps in the same clothes he had dressed in that morning. Despite his sister’s assurances, he is a prisoner once again. It seems to be his lot.

When his sister finally does call for him the next morning, he is led like a mule across the rope bridges to the farthest Sea Tower, where his sister has taken their father’s solar as her own. Led inside, he sees her seated behind their grandfather’s desk. Though hewn and sanded down to have a flat workable surface, the legs of the desk are the many limbs of the original trunk, retaining their natural driftwood twist; the ghostly, spiraling roots of some ancient mainland tree worn down smooth by the sea. They prop up their slanted trunk still, after years and years of drifting. 

A large plate piled high with oysters sits on the desk before Yara. Behind her seat, the endless green sea is visible through a wall of high arched windows. As if she were seated upon the whole of the ocean. 

Seeing him, Yara waves Theon’s escort back toward the door and offers him to sit in the chair across from her.

Pointing at the oysters, she offers, “Eat, if you wish.”

His stomach is bitter this morning and he has no appetite. But he takes a single oyster and places it on the dish before his seat. 

Swallowing his wounded pride, Theon asks, “What is it you wish to discuss with me, sister?”

A scoff. The ironborn do not bother much with formalities when there are important things to discuss. He hopes his sister is pleased by his frankness, rather than finding it amusing or forced. 

"In ten days time," Yara begins, shucking an oyster with a small knife, "there will be a feast here at Pyke. I've sent word to every noble house on every island. They'll come from Saltcliffe and Old Wyk, ally and enemy, they'll all come, every last one of them. I will host them here in my hall. We shall be feasting in honour of your safe return."

"I imagine I'm meant to attend, then."

"They all want to get a look at you," says Yara after she swallows her oyster, "want to see for themselves that you are in fact alive."

"Do they think me an imposter?"

"Don't know. There's been two wars since you were a child. Many lords who would've recognized you are long dead now and their sons hold their titles, men who've never set eyes on you. No, I'd imagine the lords and captains are curious to get the measure of you. See what you're made of firsthand."

Theon pokes at his own oyster's shell. "And what am I made of, sister?"

She shrugs. "That remains to be seen."

Yara discards her empty shell into a small dish beside her tankard with a clack. Her dish is mounded high with them. Theon's sits unused.

"At this great gathering," Yara continues, "you shall come before our vassals and countrymen and lords and you will formally renounce any claim you have to the Seastone Chair. You will pledge your loyalty for my claim as Lord of the Iron Islands and Lady Reaper of Pyke and state that you have no intention of contesting the decision of the kingsmoot and that you want only for my rule to be long and bountiful. Every lord of the Iron Islands will be present to witness. There will be no mistake about it, no suspicion, and no doubt. No rumours of underhandedness or misdeed. After that's done, and you are adulated for your loyalty, I shall name you my lawful heir, until the matter of my succession becomes settled."

Something cracks in Theon's chest. The hope of that had been what had kept him sustained all those years in Winterfell. On his darkest and most lonesome days, that promise, the promise that one day he would be free, he would be Lord of the Iron Islands, that he would answer to no one, had been like a sustenance. Even exiled in Braavos, that hope had remained kindled. 

And now, at last, for his life, for Jon's life, he is being made to give it up for good.

"If that is what you require of me," he mutters, looking at his unopened oyster, "then I will do so. I have been heir to the Iron Islands since I was a child of nine. What is another twelve or twenty years of it?"

"I may require more of you yet," Yara informs, "as I'm decided what to do with you beyond that. For going without complaint I mean to reward you. Perhaps with a ship or a holdfast. A few of my advisors suggest that I have you wed."

"To what end?"

"They want a Greyjoy on the Seastone Chair. To this end, they suggest your children ought to be my future heirs."

"My children."

"Children that you will father on a wife."

"But I have no wife."

Yara rolls his eyes. "Hence why you must acquire one, little brother."

"You would name your nephews and nieces heirs before your own issue?"

"If they were trueborn Greyjoys, I would. Doubly so if they were born first and grown for some time before I am ever made to take a husband. Some years of distance between your children and mine would make scheming and jealousy more difficult to foster, I imagine."

Theon exhales, feeling his head spin. _His children._ "Does legacy mean so much to you?"

"I fought hard for these lands, little brother. I’ll not see it all fall apart once I’m gone. And I am newly short on allies. I'd like to forge some new ones. Men who supported my claim during war with our uncle now conspire to see me displaced. Taking a husband myself puts another house alongside me atop our father's seat. Puts someone else within grasping distance of my title. Puts someone else's name on my children. I'd much rather have them all wait in line and prove their loyalty for a few years while they are raising your children instead."

That all sounds rather decided. "And can I not object at all to becoming your breeding stock?"

"It is not yet settled. Some of my advisors loathe the idea, think giving you your own heirs is madness, but it is a possibility being considered. Early days yet."

"Do your advisors not trust me?"

"Not a one. They are convinced you want the Seastone Chair and are plotting against me. Or that your bastard has bewitched you to mainland causes. Some suggest giving you a wife to fuck and a ship to sail will be enough to placate you. Others, well, they do not think quite so little of you."

“What more can I say to you, Yara?” Theon huffs. “Have I not proven to you I am not here for the Seastone Chair?”

“You have not. You've merely said the words, little brother. Given me the only answer that would keep you alive. Is that an assurance I should trust? For the time being, I trust you just as well as I trust the mainlander bastard you brought along.”

Scowling, Theon mutters, “Aye, you at least believe I am your brother.”

“Hardly,” Yara snaps back. “You were when you left, at least, that I know, but who you are now remains to be seen.”

“My blood is iron and salt, same as yours.”

“No,” she says so quickly Theon scoffs aloud, “it isn’t. Not really. You have been away longer than you were not. You did not hear the ocean out your window every night. Instead it was the howling of wolves.”

She grins then, cruelly. Theon glares, but cannot think of a response as biting. His usual wit is lost around her. And his silence is merely encouraging.

“Tell me, brother. What were your thoughts when the news reached you of our father’s passing? Did you weep?”

There is no reason to lie, so Theon doesn’t. “No.”

“Did you feel nothing at all, for our lord father?”

“I barely had the time to learn the news before being thrown into a cell and sentenced to the Wall,” Theon snaps back. “I did not have the luxury to mourn the man who surrendered me away to our enemies.”

“Oh,” Yara says, raising her eyebrows. It infuriates him that she is not cowed at all by what he says. “Are they _our_ enemies? Including your little pet?”

The phrasing is pointed, and he sucks at his teeth, irate. “Jon is different.”

“He is a mainlander. Blood of those who killed our brothers. He is not as different as you think. Life so far from the sea has turned you soft, little brother. Enemy or not, he is baseborn, and you are the son of a high lord. Any bastard would try to win your favour for what it could afford him in turn.”

The thought alone makes Theon scoff, but Yara is not amused. 

“And you have already fallen for the trick, it seems,” she surmises. “You think I can trust you, if you are so naive to him and his aims?” 

“I am not the one naive, sister. Do you think so little of me that you would assume I allow the son of the man who murdered my brothers sway over me?” 

“I have not decided how little to think of you." She pours herself a fresh goblet of ale, waving off the thrall as she comes forward to serve her lady. “Though you have yet to convince me otherwise. But if you insist that your bastard is so special, what does that mean for your mainland captors? Are they still your sworn enemy? Do they know? Did you hate every day of it? Curse them in their hall? Promise them ironborn vengeance for their wrongs? Or did the little wolf pack tame you? Bring you in from the cold and call you one of their own?”

Even after Lord Stark imprisoned him, he cannot even bear to lie to her and name him an enemy. “Why does it matter any longer? Do you wish to go to war with them?”

“And if I did, who would you fight alongside, little brother.”

It is not a question at all. Theon feels sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He tries to imagine sinking an arrow into Robb Stark’s heart upon the battlefield, but he cannot bear the thought. 

For a moment, Yara let her words simply exist in the air between them.

Then, sitting back, she pushes her dish away. The thrall steps forward and clears it from the table. In the hearth on the far wall, the fire roars, and Theon thinks this must be the only room in Pyke that is dry and warm.

“Do you remember when grandfather was alive?” Yara asks him then, the accusation gone from her voice.

Theon considers for a moment. “Somewhat.” He had been five or so when their father’s father had died in Robert Baratheon’s rebellion. “I remember I would play in his solar here in the Sea Tower while he worked. If I was quiet, he would not make me leave. And Rodrik and Maron never dared bother me if I was with grandfather.”

“He was the sort of ruler this rockheap needs,” declares Yara, taking a long swig of her ale, “a leader of men, and a proven warrior. Not a savage brute mad for war after war. Nor a superstitious fool drowning men in the tides, thinking the gods will bring him a bygone glory that was never his. Our grandfather had the right of it, that much is plain to me now from atop the Seastone Chair. It was he that brought maesters from the Citadel and marriages with the mainland. That peacock on cousin Harras’ banner was our grandfather’s doing. His mother is from Silverhill, and now the people of her lands smelt our ore into fine goods. That is how our kingdom will survive, brother. Not these endless rebellions. Three wars in twenty years and it has brought us nothing but widows and orphans and destitution. The women are sick of their men dying. A whole generation of our children are fatherless. Our people do not suffer defeat easily but we must suffer this. Grandfather’s sons have pissed on that legacy, each of them.”

At the mention of their uncles and father, Theon swallows and tries to hide his discomfort. “You knew them better than I. I’ll not speak in their defense.”

“They were stubborn, superstitious old men, and look what good it did them.” She dismisses her thrall with a wave of her hand when the woman offers to pour her more ale. "So no, little brother, I have no desire to go to war with your northern family, though I very much might enjoy sending some mainlanders to their graves. Vengeance is a debt we cannot repay. Our house would not survive it."

“And so then… is he… is Euron truly dead?” Theon cannot look at her as he asks.

“It’s a wonder the sea didn’t spit him back out. I doubt the Drowned God would have taken him. The _Silence_ was sundered and in flame. Ships circled the wreckage for four days and four nights. No survivors were pulled from the waters.”

That is not as assertive an answer as Theon would’ve hoped. He feels a child again when he presses, “Was he not among the dead?”

For the first time, Yara’s expression softens on him and she glances away. “Not of the intact corpses, no,” Yara admits flatly, “but the wreck was miles out, and the waters freezing. He is gone, little brother. Dead and drowned. I assure you.”

It does nothing to assure Theon, but he nods.

For a moment, Yara lets the silence settle between them. Her expression borders on pitying, and Theon cannot bear to look upon it. He looks down at his hands resting on Yara’s driftwood desk, far more dry and cracked than they’d ever been two years ago. It’s comforting, in a way, to know he is not the man he used to be. Not the man he was in Winterfell, not the child he was in Pyke. If Euron came back from the dead, perhaps Theon would not need to be afraid.

But that is a false wish. Even if Theon had grown to be just as brutal and bloodthirsty a man as his uncle, he would still be afraid of him. If not for himself, then for Jon. Euron would smell that weakness on Theon like a hound smells a fox. His uncle would slip past Theon entirely and savage Jon. 

Gorge rises in Theon's throat, and he swallows, flexes his fingers. When he looks up now, it is not to catch Yara’s eye, but to try and see the sun out the window just behind her.

Yara must notice Theon’s fidgeting. She narrows her eyes and tilts her chin. “It has not been long. Will your bastard companion be wondering where you are, little brother?”

Embarrassed, Theon shakes his head. “Doubtful.”

"He did seem awfully concerned for you."

He scoffs. "The Iron Islands frighten him. I've regaled him with all sorts of tales of the habits of our countrymen. Lightly embellished."

"Is he at all worried that I might try to kill you?"

"We would not have sailed to Harlaw if he was."

She smirks at him, and Theon meets her gaze, though not as defiantly as he’d hoped. 

“Are you fucking him?” she asks.

A stab of terror rocks his body. “And so what if I am?”

At that, Yara grins widely. “He seemed the sort. You, though, I would not have guessed.”

Theon sneers. “He is devoted, and pretty enough. Why should I not make use of him?”

“Devoted, is he?”

“I stole him from the North, where his own countrymen hate him. He is grateful to me, and offers himself. No different than a salt wife.”

“Do you keep him in your cabin? Does he attend you like a woman would?”

"When I command it of him, he makes himself available. I have lived two years as a commoner, sister. I have no need for attendants."

"And now that you have returned to your homeland, will you be releasing him from your _services_?"

"No."

Eyebrows raised, Yara asks, "And what if he insists?"

“There is no need. He will not leave me.”

“A chain of promises rather than a chain of iron. You'll find it less secure than the real thing, little brother."

"We shall see. It has brought him from Winterfell to the Free Cities all the way here to Pyke and it has not failed me yet."

"Who is whose prisoner, I wonder."

"Wonder what you like."

At least to that, Yara looks somewhat proud. "Men will not bear you sons, little brother. We don’t have the option to be frivolous.”

Without meaning to, Theon bristles. “Frivolous?”

“We are the two living Greyjoys left in the world. And only one of us is able to further our family line. Your bastard certainly cannot. If you are to take a mainland wife, do you intend to keep him?"

“And with our numbers so depleted is it wise to only take one wife?” Theon counters with a satisfying smirk. “Should I not have two or three? Perhaps one from each kingdom. Help recover our numbers, as you say. And I'll keep Jon as a salt wife.”

Yara squints at him, leveling. “Is the bastard with child, little brother?”

“No.”

“Then do not argue such stupid things.”

“I have no intention of paying heed to the customs of greenlanders any longer, sister,” Theon retorts. “I have suffered them long enough. Why should I not claim Jon? Find me a girl whose father will not take too great offence to him, and I shall consider it. But Jon is mine by iron price, and I shall keep him.”

“Don’t be a fool,” replies Yara, “it doesn’t suit you, though you try so very hard. You did not survive the wilderness of the North and the cutthroats of the Free Cities by being a fool, surely. The games of the highborn lords are no less deadly, I assure you.”

“I survived because I had Jon. I’ll not be parted from him.”

“Then do not be. Keep him, if he is so indispensable to you. You’d not be the first ironborn lord to keep a boy in your bedchamber. But do not overplay your hand, little brother. Our house is weakened, our lands and people are weakened. If we do not rebuild our stores by winter we will starve. All of us. We are not in a position to be making demands of mainlander lords to send us their daughters by the bargeload for you to despoil. Less so for you to be flaunting your bastard lover in their courts.” 

“Each of those mainlander lords has a bastard or two of his own, or helps himself to a mistress that his wife must abide. But I’ll not disgrace their family names with bastards. Their daughter’s children will be Lords of the Iron Islands for generations to come. What right have they to pronounce judgement on Jon?”

“All the right in the world,” Yara draws out slowly, as if he were very stupid. “They have what we need and hardly any reason to give it to us. If they are to accord you a wife, then it is they who may set terms. If you go to their holdfasts with your bastard in tow and demand their daughter’s hand in marriage those lords will laugh you out of their halls. Their mistresses too.”

"And so you intend to hold your rule together through the strength of a single noble bride."

"All kingdoms are built on young noble brides. They are the strongest mortar there is. It is through them all the alliances in the world are forged."

“And I thought the ironborn took what they wanted.”

Yara’s gaze turns withering. “Our father and uncle tried to take what they wanted from the mainland and it brought them only ruin. I will not follow in their steps to the detriment of our people, to ruin.”

“Do the other lords see it as that? Ruin?” Theon slumps down, a little chastened. “Would a true ironborn not prefer to die fighting than beg on bended knee for the scraps of the mainland?” 

“I do not care what the other lords see,” his sister’s voice is firm and steady but Theon can tell she is holding back a shout, “the captains named me Lord of the Iron Islands, and it is my word they will yield to. As will you. And your bastard.”

His sister lets the statement linger. She drinks deeply again from her ale, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “Our father’s chair was hardwon, little brother. Keeping it is all the harder. I am a woman unwed. There are many in the Iron Islands and the mainland alike who would gladly see me deposed, or wed to their sons and having heirs fathered on me. And if that happens, then there will be no one at all to protect you or your bastard lover. So it is in your interest to heed my command and do as I say.”

Theon grimaces, “You said we were not your prisoners.”

“And you are not,” she returns, “indeed I think we ought be friends. But if you force my hand, I will not balk at locking you in a tower and throwing your bastard naked in the street.” 

Abruptly, Theon stands again, slamming his hands on the driftwood desk.

“You will not touch him,” he growls before he can think better of it. 

The threat rings in the quiet of the room, and the guards at Theon’s back shift in response. But Yara remains unmoved, and so they do nothing more than grip their lances. 

“If you are agreeable, little brother,” Yara says coolly, voice like venom, “then I’ll need not to. Do not make this more difficult on yourself over pride. What I offer you is more than reasonable.”

Fury boils under his skin and he bites the inside of his cheek to quell the sudden childish urge of spitting on the floor in defiance. Yara sees it in him, cocks her head to the side with a passive gaze, daring him.

As a younger man, Theon would have risen to meet such an afront. 

“Fine,” he snaps petulantly, "fine, I'll do it." Theon can do nothing but agree to this now. “If I’m dismissed, _Lady Greyjoy._ ”

Yara says nothing further, and only waves him away. Her guards let him pass, and Theon storms past them. He’s humiliated to feel the burn of tears in his eyes, and blinks them back as he storms out of the castle. The sea salt air stings his eyes and tousels his hair as he marches to the stables and claims a mount, aiming only to get as far away as he can from Castle Pyke.

The journey downhill to Lordsport takes less than an hour on horseback. The return journey back up to the headlands can take two or more depending on the vigor of the mount. The path is a trail of pebbly shale among sedges and hawkbit shrubs. Every bare stone is overgrown with years and years of grey-green and orange lichens. 

Overhead the sky is clouded solid white. Winds whip at Theon’s face, tasting of salt even high up on the cliffs. Seabirds swoop and dive on the wind, dark little silhouettes against the gloom. As he navigates down the terrain, the scent of the sea grows stronger and so does the hum of the crashing waves. When the path gets lost in the groundcover, Theon only need point his mount toward the foggy, black smoke rising from down below the distant ridge.

Nestled back against the escarpment of the headland is the town of Lordsport. 

The harbour is wide and calm, armed in by the stone sea wall with its many wooden cranes and hoists hanging over the water’s edge. Wooden docks branch into the water where several vessels offload their goods. Fat seals rest on a disused pier, barking at the irritant gulls.

Lordsport itself is hardly two intersecting mud roads. From the land behind the harbour rise scores of stacks of black smoke from the many foundries and forges where smiths work iron and tin and brass into swords and armour and hammers and plows. Anything and everything in the world that could be forged out of metal could be found in the smithys of Lordsport. 

Atop a hill over the town and harbour, the simple keep of House Botley sits squat and square. Though the stones are blackened, the structure is new; Robert Baratheon had burned the old motte to ash. Salvaged stones had been employed to reconstruct it.

The last Theon ever saw of this place it was a charred husk. Then, the forges of the smiths had been doused and it had been the ships and sod houses that sent up plumes of smoke. The harbour had choked with sundered longships and Robert Baratheon’s armies had churned the meadows and thickets into wet earth.

At last, he is here, and he is a stranger. This is no home of his. He wonders now if it ever was. He had thought his return would feel different. He is ironborn by birth. Salt and iron is his blood. These were his lands, once.

But to his horror, there is little change here from how he’d felt in the North. Unmoored and alone. His sister openly mistrusts him. His brothers are dead, and hated him besides. He has no other family but his mother, and he shall be a stranger to her, he knows.

Theon trots his mount down the strand along the quay. Children weave between merchant stalls and play in the tide pools. Across the harbour, men toil in the shipyards; high open bays where longships are repaired. Sailmakers treat canvas with wax and sew grommets. Not a one spares Theon a glance as he surveys the town. His Braavosi clothes are dull and worn. All that differentiates him from a common fishmonger is his washed hair and good teeth. 

The sailors on the docks do not recognize him as he makes his way to the ships. One waves him away with a bear paw of a hand and shouts, “Who’re you? Ain’t allowed back here, you.”

Theon scoffs. “I am Theon Greyjoy, last living son of Lord Balon Greyjoy,” he tells the lout, “there is nowhere on this rock I am not allowed.”

The old sailor does not seem impressed, scans him with mild disinterest before scoffing himself. “Aye, this here is my fucking ship, Theon Greyjoy, last living son of Lord Balon Greyjoy,” he repeats with a falsely posh tone, “and if I say you ain’t allowed, then take the damned warning or lose your fucking hand.”

Despite himself, Theon takes a step back, but snarls as he recovers. “My sister is your liege lord, she will not see harm done to me without consequence.”

The sailor laughs then, a big, heavy sound to match the size of him. “Consequence? For defending what is mine? Do you need a woman to protect you? You misjudge what my lord considers harm, you cur. These are not the green lands you know. You are not true ironborn simply because you crawled out of your mother.”

How dare they talk about his mother?

Seething, Theon allows himself the petty response he’d resisted before, spitting on the slick, briny dock before turning and stalkingaway. The sailor only laughs.

He cannot stand to be here. Furious with himself, he turns on his heel and leaves Lordsport behind. Takes his horse up the headland to the castle, driving the poor beast hard up the stoney hills. At least at Pyke, he’ll at least be able to wallow in peace in the privacy of his own room as he had a boy.

Alone in his chambers, Theon sits cross-legged on the floor, atop the plush white pelt spread on before the hearth. With an iron, he pokes at the smoldering coals watching the weak flames dance against soot-blackened stone. No need to call on someone to do it. He’s been stoking his own fires for some time. 

The peace and solitude of his rooms is a comfort. He had grown to appreciate his own company while trapped under the Great Keep of Winterfell. Better being alone than having to act a role of indifference in front of them all A lifetime of that sort of playacting has left a sour taste in his mouth for it. Never fooled anyone much either, it turns out. But at least in Lord Stark’s dungeons he had wine and ale to while away the days in misery. He could send a thrall for something to drink but he’d rather not be seen sulking in his chambers like a child.

The fire dwindles back to embers before there’s a quiet rap on his door. As he stands, Theon tilts his head, unsure at first if he’d heard it at all. This land is playing tricks on him. Still, he makes his way to his door and creaks it open, curious.

Barely lit by the dim yellow torchlight of the hall, Jon stands just outside, hugging a large leather wineskin to his chest.

“May — may I come in?”

A pitiful relief that washes over Theon at the sight of him. Jon is newly clean-shaving and has trimmed his hair, looking fresher and rested. As though he'd been away for years.

It’s obvious as he steps aside that Jon had expected to be turned away, or at least subjected to an argument. He blinks, surprised as he tilts his chin toward Theon’s chambers, inspecting the sight inside before stepping past the threshold.

He only looks around a moment before his eyes meet Theon’s, and the instant Jon takes him in fully, he frowns. “Is everything alright?”

“What?”

“You look miserable. Your eyes are red.”

Sometimes he misses the Jon who was reluctant to mention such things so frankly. 

Without an answer, Jon shuts the door behind them and steps closer, but holds back his touch.

Despite his bristling, Theon wishes Jon would embrace him, but is too proud to ask.

“What’s the matter?” Jon tries again.

“Nothing,” Theon snaps, “gods, you always imagine the worst.”

“You spoke with your sister this morning?” Jon presses, ignoring the barb. “What had she to say?”

“Nothing."

"At all?"

"Nothing worthy of repeating."

“Theon, please.” Jon looks at him with such an earnest face, and his fingers brush carefully against Theon’s arm. “Do not lie to me. Just tell me. It’s only me.”

Theon can feel his body admit shame before he speaks it, shoulders sagging as he grimaces. Jon’s hand cups Theon’s face, and Theon’s jaw works against the catch in his throat.

“It’s foolish. Childish,” Theon manages finally, words coming out humiliatingly hoarse. “It’s — it’s nothing important.”

Undeterred, Jon cradles the back of Theon’s head in both hands. It’s such a soothing gesture, and calms Theon. There is no judgement in Jon’s eyes, never has been, and Theon lets a breath out slow, relaxing back into his body.

“I think perhaps," he admits at length, "that this was all a terrible mistake. Coming here, to Pyke. It's nothing like I imagined it would be.” Cowardly, traitorous thoughts. They form like a dagger under his ribs, like saying them aloud makes it real. “Though, seeing it now, I’m not sure what I imagined. But I fear there is no place for me here. And now it is too late to undo. I’m not — I’m not like them. Not one of them. Ironborn. I am a fraud, and each of them can see. They all see it. That I’m not —”

“You are,” Jon assures, “of course, you are.”

“They all wish I hadn’t lived,” murmurs Theon, “my sister, my uncle Rodrik, the captains. By turning up alive I have spoiled all their careful plans. My dear sister said as much to me. It's _inconvenient_. I am a threat to her position and could contest the kingsmoot. Unhappy lords could rally behind me and pit us against each other. It would have been much neater for all of them if I had just known my place and died.”

Theon shuts his eyes tight, forcing back the image of Eddard Stark standing over him with his gargantuan greatsword, muttering a prayer before execution.

“I remember the day that my father was crowned,” Theon goes on, “it was grey and cold. There was snow on the beach. My uncle Aeron stood in the surf and placed a driftwood crown on my father’s head, and my mother squeezed my hand and whispered to me that I was a prince, now. A _prince_. And I didn’t know what that meant. To me, it seemed that nothing had changed. Placing a bit of wood on my father’s brow did not destroy the mainland, and it did not make me a prince. But my family, the captains, our bannermen, the smallfolk, they all spoke as if I were suddenly different. Like they all knew something about me that I could not see.

“And when they sent me away to the North, I tried to remember that. To hold it close. That I was a prince, once. If only briefly. The last Prince of the Iron Islands. So I bore it all happily, or if not happily, then gamely. At least, I tried to. I went to Winterfell. I caused no trouble. I plotted no treason. For years, I withstood all the whispers and the suspicion and the pitying glances because I was a _prince_. And they were all beneath my notice.

“But I don’t think I was ever a prince. Calling me one did not make me one, any more than my father calling himself King gave him a kingdom. We… we are a house of pretenders. Charlatans. Turncloaks. All of us. And the whole world can see right through us. They knew it in Winterfell the moment they looked at me and now… now they know it here, as well.”

Theon had not meant to say all that, but once he had started confessing, he found he could not stop. It has been eating him alive inside. For years, maybe. He cannot bear to look Jon in the eye, instead lets his vision wander, gazes hard at the stitching on Jon’s clothes.

Because Theon knows the look on Jon’s face without having to see it. That terribly sad look of his, with his dark brows knit in concern and his pouting mouth. Theon loves that expression as much as he hates it. It makes him feel like a child.

But Jon’s fingers draw small, firm circles against Theon’s scalp and, mercifully, he does not argue, does not try and insist that Theon has it all wrong. Though the foolish boy sometimes looks at Theon as if he hung the very stars in the sky, on this matter, at least, Jon knows full well how very little help mere words are. 

Instead, he kisses Theon’s brow. Puts his strong arms around him, holds Theon in a warm and solid embrace. Theon nearly faints for the relief. 

“This was supposed to be my home,” whimpers Theon, allowing himself this petulance with only Jon to see, “these were supposed to be my people. And all they can do is scoff at me. Am I wanted nowhere?”

“You are wanted with me,” Jon insists, “always.”

"They all hate me. Hate me, for daring to walk around breathing the air while my father and brothers lie cold and dead. For surviving the North.”

“They are reminded of their humiliation before the realm.” Jon rubs Theon’s back absently. “They look at you and know that their prince was gone and stolen from their lands. They look at you and can only see their own shame. They would rather not look at you at all.”

“For something I had no part in!” Theon pulls away from Jon’s hold. “I was only a boy, a child! I did not want to be their prince! How can they lay that at my feet?”

“Because they rather not bear it themselves. And so they make the burden yours. It never becomes easy to bear.” Jon peers up at him, a cautious smile on his face.

Realization hits Theon like a bolt. “That… that is how it was for you, wasn’t it? To be the lord's bastard in Winterfell.”

“They are not free to hate the man who has wronged them. So instead they hate you.”

In an instant, years of petty bickering and childish brooding slot into place in Theon’s mind. Jon as a child of five, when Theon had first come to Winterfell, quiet and mistrustful and already so fearful of the judgements of other men. Finding Jon taking refuge in the godswood after Lady Stark had said something cruel that his father had let pass unmentioned. Or how, with the birth of each new Stark child, Jon had withheld himself more and more, dreading the day that his new sibling would be old enough to understand what being a bastard meant, and then forever look at him differently.

How many times has Jon tried to explain to him that horrible circumstance? Of being loved half-heartedly? Of being the whipping boy for the disappointments of a whole kingdom? Yet Theon realizes now he had never truly realized what that meant.

There is shame in that. Perhaps Theon has always been a slow learner.

Though now, it seems, Jon is not troubled by Theon’s witlessness. 

“Look at me,” he commands in a kind voice, nudging Theon’s chin up. “Hear me, now. You are a prince and kraken both, ironborn, a Greyjoy of Pyke, blood of salt and iron, and you’ll not die for the sake of lesser men.”

When he talks like that, Theon nearly believes him.

“The people of Harlaw love you," Jon assures, "you saw that. Your aunt and uncle at Ten Towers, they welcomed you, granted you passage even when they were unsure of your true identity. I quite liked your Uncle Rodrik. He was nothing like what I expected of an ironborn man. More of a maester than a reaver. And he rules over the highest seat on the richest isle, with ships and men at his command. Surely not every man on the Islands is a fanatic for these brutal Old Ways as your father and his brothers were.”

Confounded, Theon shrugs. His own brothers had always mocked their Harlaw uncle. But then, their own wisdom had seen them only to early graves. Uncle Rodrik lives still.

“And you have me,” Jon goes on. “I don’t know what sort of use I am as a friend to you here, but whatever I might do to see you content and restored, I will do it.”

“Yara is suspicious of your aims,” Theon confesses with a bitter smile. “She worries you are a spy for your father and thinks I afford you too much influence over me.”

“Well, she and I happen to agree on that.”

Theon’s own laugh surprises him, and he shoves Jon gently as a scold. Jon’s humour has always been the morbid sort.

“She might have me take a wife,” Theon hears himself admit, quietly.

He sees Jon clench his jaw, swallow, the mirth gone from him. “Well, we knew that was likely a concession we would have to make upon returning.”

“A wife from the mainland, even,” Theon goes on, “to help usher in a new season of cooperation and allegiance between the Iron Islands and the other six kingdoms, says Yara. Our people have been crushed and decimated by three foolhardy wars and so we shall need advantageous allies from the mainland to shore up our halls for winter.”

“It is a wise approach.”

“My children…” Theon stumbles over the word and curses himself. “Any children I had, they would be Yara’s heirs to the Seastone Chair and to Pyke. She wants a Greyjoy successor.”

Jon considers this. “Would the ironborn tolerate heirs with a mainlander mother?”

“My _lord_ sister thinks they will. And there is precedence for it. On Harlaw. On Great Wyk. We have intermarried for hundreds of years. My Harlaw cousin, Harras, who brought us to Pyke, his mother is from the Westerlands. And all men can come to abide things they once hated. The northmen love your half-siblings, who are half southern themselves. And that was a match struck in wartimes for lances and horses. Yara thinks that such a match to ensure peace and food for winter will broker no more objection.”

“Perhaps she is right. She knows her people.” Jon shrugs.

Agitation bubbling up in his body, Theon runs and hands through his hair. “I cannot stand this. Being offered around like a broodmare. Like a whore. For some noble girl's father to select. As if it were _him_ I would wed. It is demeaning. I am… so _sick,_ sickened to death of other men making my decisions for me. They stole me away. They raised me among enemies. Forfeited my life. Now they tell me who I must wed. Where I must go. Like some granger's prized sow. I hate it, Jon. A man grown, I am, and still not permitted to decide anything for myself. My whole life… my whole life long, the only thing I ever chose for myself was you.”

Smiling sadly, Jon reaches and takes Theon’s hands, holds them in his own. All of the world trying to pull them apart, only days after their arrival. 

Theon closes his eyes. “I am one thing when I am with you, and another when I am with everyone else.”

“No man is one thing all the time.”

“If men saw how I am with you…”

“Men have seen,” comforts Jon.

“They may know. They may hear rumours and gossip. But they have not _seen_.”

“Is that not well?” Jon probes gently. “Do the ironborn never put down their ferocity for anything? Not even for their wives or their children? Will they think so much less of you for keeping a stolen mainlander and doting on him?”

Theon bites his lip, dark brows knit in an expression of distress. “I would not risk it, Jon. I would not risk you on their understanding.”

Jon presses his brow to Theon’s. “We cannot live in fear of it forever.”

“I am reluctant to lose you. I have never had anything of my own, before.”

“Well, I am not so hapless. I can keep my distance in front of others.”

“How can you stand it, Jon?” demands Theon. “I have brought you halfway around the world only to hide you away like some southern courtly scandal. I hate it. I hate that I have done this to you.”

“You have not _done_ this to me, Theon. It is not like Winterfell, not to me. I knew what it would mean to come with you to Pyke, and I chose it still. You are not locking me away unwillingly.”

“But locked away you must be.”

“I doubt that I will be wilting away in a tower.”

“And what happens when it is not enough?” Theon counters, a frantic edge seeping into his voice. “What happens when the day comes that you have grown bored at being stored away like a mistress? Of being scowled at and cursed in the halls? That you grow sick of these backwater raiders insulting you?”

“You sound rather sure it will come to pass.” Jon points out.

“I could not forgive myself if I drove you away."

Jon smiles, as if amused. "Well then I shall endeavour to not be driven away. Though if you did not manage it in all the years I've known you, I doubt that you shall manage it now."

"You make it sound like such a chore."

"Aye," quips Jon, "I think I have hated you more years than I have loved you. Though, a good many years, they were one in the same."

That, at last, manages to wrest a chuckle out of Theon. Beaming, Jon presses a kiss to his cheek in a gesture that Theon might have found demeaning in other circumstances. But tonight, he feels small and defenseless.

"Tell me,” Theon begs, squeezing Jon’s fingers, “that this wasn't some grand misstep, coming here. Tell me it wasn’t wrong. That we chose the right course."

"It isn't a mistake."

"You do not regret it?"

"Not yet." Smiling, Jon offers, “Shall I pour you a drink, at last?”

It melts him, that soft, loving look on Jon’s face. That private look when he is assured of no scorn, no mockery. 

The weight of the day eases off Theon’s shoulders, just slightly. He is right, after all. The whole world could turn against him, but he will always have Jon. 

Swallowing, Theon nods. “A drink, please.”

Face brightening, Jon lifts the wineskin in hand again and pours them both a goblet. He’s quiet as he does it, and sits without saying anything further. The silence is warm, comfortable. Somehow, Jon makes silence so. He always does. After admitting so much, it is a balm to Theon to have to not say anything more. And Jon always seems to understand that, does not insist on conversation as they drink together.

When finally he is willing to speak again, Theon ventures, “It is a relief to see you.”

“It has only been two nights,” answers Jon, trying to quash his grin, “and already you’re coming undone without me.” 

“It feels quite a bit longer.” Theon leans across the table to place a kiss on Jon’s temple. “Sleeping alone has become quite unfamiliar. This might be the longest we have gone apart since we fled Winterfell.”

Turning redder, Jon pulls back. “Aye, and we shall have to reacquaint ourselves to the hardship.”

“Who says we must?”

“Your sister,” Jon attempts to assuage, “it would be foolish to test her hospitality further. You said yourself, she already does not trust me —”

“Why should we endeavour to win her trust, then? She is decided on suspecting us,” Theon interrupts. “My sister is newly the first woman lord of the Iron Islands, with only the reluctant approval of the Iron Throne. To her, everyone is a threat, and we are no exception. Let her be suspicious. We are not conspiring. We have nothing to hide from her. I do not care what any of them think. Please, Jon. Stay with me.”

“And what if we are caught?”

“This is not Winterfell,” Theon murmurs, standing and pulling him toward his bed. “I am a highborn lord of this castle, not a child war prize any longer. I need not consult anyone on who I may or may not bring into my chambers. If we are caught, what of it? Rumour and gossip might circle the castle about us? As if it does not already. Let them say what they like. I want you with me.”

That is what makes him crumble. Jon always surrenders to Theon’s vulnerability. So protective he has always been. 

Yara is a fool to think Jon could be the one of the two of them to be at all deceitful. 

Heart in his throat, Theon takes Jon by the hand into the bedchamber. He sits back upon his bed beneath the draping canopy, pulls Jon's face down to meet him in a kiss.

“Come,” he whispers against Jon's mouth, “lay with me. Hold me.”

As they lay together under Jon’s fur-lined cloak, Jon guides Theon back against his chest, tucking him close until they slot together. His arms are strong, and still, he is so incredibly warm. Theon lets his eyes drift closed as he listens to Jon breathe against his neck. 

Here, in Jon’s arms, the misery of the day withdraws, quiets. What has happened to Theon in the past two years that he finds the truest solace in another man’s arms? In the arms of his lord captor’s bastard son? His younger self would rather have died. Would have balked. Now, there are times when Theon wishes he could throttle his younger self. What a sad little fool he was. Still is.

Whatever else, he cannot be parted from Jon. Theon won’t allow it.

It is dark when Theon next opens his eyes. Jon sleeps beside him. The sheets are rumpled, and Jon’s cloak is on the floor. Someone had come in and lit fires in the hearths while they slept. Jon will be upset, but Theon does not care. What matters to him of the gossip of thralls and servants?

The fires heat the rooms well, but Theon still bends to retrieve Jon’s fur-lined cloak from the floor and winds it around himself before he goes to the window. Beyond the leaded glass is only black, inky and roiling. Not stars or moon or torchlight to be seen. The night sky is dark and the sea darker, the horizon between them indetectable far, far beyond the tower. Only the silver crests of seafoam and the lonesome crash of the shore. It’s like the end of the world. Or the world of long ago.

“Come back to bed.”

Theon turns. Jon is propped up on an elbow looking at him. Bedraggled, his dark hair falls into his face, having come undone in his sleep. Dark, hooded eyes regard him cooly. A shadow carves down the line of his pale neck. Gods, he is beautiful.

Jon holds out his hand and Theon returns to the canopy bed. He leans down and kisses him, brushing the hair out of Jon’s eyes. Jon’s mouth is warm against his own. Receptive. Longing. 

Theon takes him from behind. Laying spooned together on their sides, he rocks into Jon’s yielding body in long, powerful thrusts. Hands fisting in the sheets, Jon pushes his hips back to meet the strokes, moaning and gasping. It is slow, but luscious. Beneath them, the bed creaks with each thrust. It’s been too long. They’re both too eager. Heatedly chasing fulfillment. It is desperate and inelegant and doesn’t last.

Afterwards, they bask in the heat of the fires, stroking and touching one another. Gods, it had only been a handful of days, but it is nearly like their first time all over again. 

“Did that put you at ease at all?” Jon coaxes.

“Fucking you always puts me at ease.”

Jon laughs. “Cad."

“It _does_ ,” insists Theon.

“Oh, I know it. The flesh is easy enough to please. When your blood is up, nothing else matters, does it? Just a warm body. Never the stuff of romance from you.”

“Aye, and what of that?” Theon feigns insult. “I’d say it is rather a romance. You alone could bring me back from utter despair with a kiss and a coy look. It is not just anyone I want. It is you.”

Jon smiles. “I know.”

A warm silence passes between them before Jon glances at the braziers and the hearth, realizing for the first time the newly-kindled flames burning. 

To distract him, Theon gives Jon’s arm a tug and murmurs, “You’ll stay with me, won’t you? It’s still some time before the sun rises. You must stay and keep me warm.”

Blinking, Jon nods, turning to smile at him again. “Aye, come here.” 

Arms wrap around Theon and pull him close.

“You will always be first in my heart,” murmurs Theon. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“No matter what else. Whatever the world may throw at us, lords and kings and sisters and wives. None of it will replace you. I will spend my days making sure you know it.”

“Then I have many happy days to look forward to,” Jon agrees.

Outside, the sea is breaking on the cliffs, over and over and over. One day, it will crumble all of Pyke. A wave at a time, the relentless maw of the ocean will swallow this castle off the cliff tops. Gently or by sudden force, it will all go. The sea stacks will crumble and all of it will rest forever at the bottom of the seafloor. 

Good riddance, thinks Theon.


	3. Jon

The feast is well into its fifth hour. Outside, the rain has beat steady on the roof of Yara Greyjoy’s hall all night long and shows no signs of relenting. Not that the feasters mind, or even notice. No longer empty, the sunken floor of the hall is crammed with trestle tables, seating two hundred men or more. Lords, captains, crewmen, all were seated beneath the glossy black block of the Seastone Chair. Musicians play upon drums and flutes. Men and ladies dance in an aisle that runs the centre of the hall, free of benches. Around the walls, banners had been hung high behind each party. Colours to mark each house. The skeletal hand of House Drumm; the green and black vairy of House Blacktyde; the ten nooses of House Myre bordered in red, the black leviathan of House Volmark. Many others that Jon does not know. Heraldry of the Iron Islands is rather morbid in Jon’s opinion, seeing the colours of the Great Houses displayed around the hall. Most are black and grey and ashen. 

High above the raised dais before the Seastone Chair, a massive black-and-gold Greyjoy banner is hung. More elaborate a sigil than Jon has seen on usual Greyjoy banners, it is superbly detailed, the long, twining arms of the kraken are embroidered with spun gold thread, the suckers of the monster’s limbs sewn with many discs of beaten bronze. Even from where he’s seated, far back from the dais, Jon can see it well.

Highborn pride is highborn pride, whether in the lonesome moors of the North or the cruel cliffs of the Iron Islands. Bastards sit in the low tables, farthest from the hearth and hosts. Along with squires and footmen. And of course, Jon had no expectation that he would be sat near Theon at the dais, but it would be a lie to say it did not hurt to be placed down in the far benches once again.

But he does his best to bear it well. This evening is about Theon, not him. He drinks malt beer and picks over the spiced fishcakes and buttered turnips upon the serving platter before him. Jon had developed a taste for seafood in Braavos, clams and oysters and prawns and crabs and octopus, but even with the tables heaped high with all manner of dishes he finds he has little appetite. 

The hall is raucous. The air ripples with a hundred conversations. Two men a few tables over are playing a harrowing game of axe-throwing that draws great cheers from the crowd when they dodge each other’s tosses. Jon huddles over his tankard and hopes their aim is true enough that he need not keep watch for flying hatchets. 

At the far end of the smoky hall, Lady Greyjoy sits high upon the Seastone Chair. Even when the hall is lit by the iron chandeliers, two dozen brazers, and a roaring hearth, the inky black stone of the seat is still darker than jet. At Lady Greyjoy’s right sits Theon, dressed in new clothes and looking miserable. All morning he had complained to Jon as they dressed, dreading having to appear before the ironborn lords.

Jon had done his best to be reassuring, but encouragement has never been his strength.

There are a few other faces he recognizes; Jon has been attempting to learn the names of Lady Greyjoy’s close advisors. To her left side sits Dagmer, called Dagmer Cleftjaw, due to the horrific scar that split his mouth in two. A tall man with a white beard, old but still strong, who had come into the hall and lifted Theon clean off the floor in a tight embrace when he had first arrived. The old captain had been Pyke’s master-at-arms in the time of Theon's childhood and had taught both Theon and Yara their first lessons of swordplay and sailing. In the war against Euron Greyjoy, Dagmer had been one of Yara’s staunchest defenders and in return for his loyalty, she had named him Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.

The old man was no highborn lord, but his skills as a captain and a warrior had won him adulation and respect from his countrymen. Jon does admire that, even if watching the old man's lips move makes him shiver.

Further down the table there is a maester, Wendamyr, with his grey robes and chain, and a few men-at-arms but that is where Jon's recognition ends.

Even this late in the night, men keep arriving. Crews shake off the rain, carrying banners proceed down the central aisle between the trestle tables and kneel before their lady lord. Men toast to her rule and her health. Others boast of their exploits during the last rebellion. It is altogether a more raucous affair than feasts held in Winterfell, but Jon’s father had never been a man for celebrations and revelry.

The game of axe-throwing concludes when one man fumbles a catch and a great cheer rises throughout the hall, every man and woman raising their cups to the victor. The winning man flips the axe in his hand and downs his own drink.

From her seat Yara Greyjoy bangs her hand upon the table. The applause for the victor fades. The musicians cease their playing. 

“My lords!” she bellows, and Jon is impressed at how her voice carries. “Ironborn captains and reavers! Each of you is welcome and well met in my hall!” She stands from the Seastone Chair, and from there, she is the highest figure in the room. “We are gladdened by your company. I have gathered you all here on this day to bear witness to a most auspicious event. By now, I’m sure the rumours have been carried to every last village and quay that our lost prince has returned back home to us after all these many years.” She holds her arm out to indicate Theon seated at her side. “I present to you all, Lord Theon Greyjoy of Pyke, escaped from the clutches of the greenlands and returned to his countrymen at long last.” 

Theon stands, his new clothes simple but well made, and all in black. The whole crowd watches him. A few scattered lords raise their cups and toast to Theon’s safe return, but their voices ring in the otherwise quiet hall. 

Yara resumes, “You men here, every one of you fought for me when my uncle slew my father and tried to claim the Seastone Chair. You put your faith in my rule, fought and spilt your blood for it. For this land. Paid the iron price. I do not forget that.” She raises her tankard in salute, and around the hall men cheer and raises theirs in turn. “What is dead may never die!”

“ _What is dead may never die_!” the hall cries in return. The men bang on the tables and drink.

Even Jon drinks to that. Yara Greyjoy’s words remind him of the staunchest of the Northern separatists. In his own lifetime, Jon has only ever known a North with happy relations to the south. Though old wounds go down hard in that land. The North remembers, as his father says. Jon might have heard that phrase every day of his life and simply took it as the way of the world, but seeing the same pride within a different people, Jon thinks he understands it now better than he ever has. What it is that makes men fight and die for this scrap of land or that. 

As the cheering in the hall dies down, Lady Greyjoy places her tankard down. “My lords, my returned brother has words for his countrymen. Pray you listen to him.”

Leaving his chair, Theon comes around the long table like a man walking to the noose. He comes before the hall, standing before his sister’s table on the lower step. He fusses with his cloak. Everything he wears is a gift from his sister. His clothes, his sword and enamel dagger, his boots, even his gloves. There is not a man here that doesn’t know it. Knows that Theon owes everything to the mercy of his sister. That knowledge smothers the room.

Theon looks at the tables before him, swallows, then speaks. “My lords, captains.” His voice is too quiet at first and he must raise it as he continues. “Most of you here tonight do not know me, never have met me, as a child or as a man. And I was a child, last I stood in this hall. A boy of nine, by the end of my lord father’s doomed rebellion. 

“I left this place as Balon Greyjoy’s heir and last living son. Every day since on the mainland I remembered that truth; kept it close in my breast. It kept me burning in those frozen lands. Throughout the long summer I let the northmen know that my blood was salt and iron. I did not forget. And when the king ordered me to take the black, I refused. I fled the North, made for the Free Cities and found refuge amongst the seafarers of Braavos. The journey was punishing, without aid or allies. Only a sword and my wits to keep myself alive. I dared not reveal myself for fear that the northmen would find me, or that the Braavosi would ransom me to the king. Earning my way back to the Iron Islands took resolve and cunning, and I am gladdened beyond measure to be among my countrymen once more.”

A scattering of cheers and fist-pounding flits about the hall, but most men hold their ovation. 

Theon continues, “But I have been gone from the Iron Islands since the last winter, some twelve years now. And the sea is far away in the North. The only salt and iron was that which I carried inside me. I did not spend my summer years working rigging and captaining ships. I was not fostered in these halls or yours. But I have been put to steel for these lands. I have defied the king on the Iron Throne for these lands. There are those here today who mistrust me. Do not think this escapes me.

“So let it be known by every man here: my sister is the rightful chosen Lord of the Iron Islands. I renounce all claim to the Seastone Chair, and forswear any intent to contest the kingsmoot. Here, before gods and men, I swear this to you all. It is she that is our father’s chosen heir, she that was chosen by the captains of the kingsmoot. I will not interfere with the will of the lords and captains who put their trust in her, nor undo the first kingsmoot in two thousand years. It is the true way ironborn select their rulers. I will not meddle in the old ways.”

The smokey hall is as silent as the grave. Only the crackling of the braziers and the rain pelting upon the roof to be heard. 

“Here, before gods and men, I pledge myself to the rule of Lady Yara Greyjoy, my sister, my father’s heir. My sword and ship are hers. Her call is the only call I shall answer.” He turns then, and takes his tankard from the table, raises it aloft to the crowd before him. “To Lady Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands! Long may she rule.”

“To Lady Greyjoy!” the gathered men toast in return.

Theon turns to his sister, bows his head, and drinks. 

He drains his ale in one swig, tipping his head back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards. He slams the empty tankard on the table in front of his sister, and from the back of the hall, through the raised arms of toasting captains, Jon can see Theon and his sister stare hard at one another across the tabletop before Theon strides back around to his seat.

Lady Yara clasps her brother’s shoulder once he’s returned to her side. Theon turns his head to look his sister in the eye. A lot seems to transpire between them unsaid. But perhaps Jon is interposing his own mistrust and reluctance where none exists between brother and sister. He must not assume ill-will where there has only been hospitality. Indeed, Lady Greyjoy had struck a hard bargain with her brother but she had been forthright about it; made plain in no uncertain terms what she expected and what Theon stood to receive. The ironborn are hard and cruel, but not duplicitous.

The cheers die down in the smoky hall. Once again Lady Greyjoy stands to address her vassal lords.

“Lords and captains. Friends. These days of rebellion and infighting are done with. Our strength comes from the sea, and the sea is never conquered, never tamed. A united fleet we are, from this day on.” She raises her drink once more. “To House Greyjoy! To the ironborn! What is dead can never die!”

Another round of cheering and drinking from the benches.

Lady Yara smiles. That same cruel smile. Even Jon can see it.

With the formalities done with, festivity returns to the hall tenfold. Further courses of food and drink are whisked in by thralls. The musicians pick back up their instruments, playing bawdy shanties that whole benches of men bellow along with. The squires and the cabin boys resume tossing knives and rolling dice, throwing scraps to the dogs.

Theon remains only a few minutes more. His duty done, he stands and leaves, making for his rooms over the stone bridge in the Bloody Keep. Jon watches him go. 

It would do well to give him time. Theon’s pride is as precious to him as it is brittle.

So Jon finishes his drink. Even eats a few bites of turnip. Bides his time quietly before standing and following Theon out of the raucous hall. 

He does not glance at Lady Yara but he is certain that, from her high seat on the dais, she watches him go.

Outside on the covered stone bridge between islets, the rainy sea breeze is like a cool balm on his flushed skin. The hall had been warm and smoky with the fires and heat of a hundred drunken men. Outside, the nighttime salt air is soothing and chill. Jon’s ears ring in the silence, only the rain on the roof and the rumble of the waves far below to be heard.

Jon pauses for a moment, standing on the wide stone bridge, listening to the ocean. Opening his eyes, there is a sliver of night sky to be seen between the two castle towers. And below, a wedge of the sea, rolling indigo and silver far off to the horizon. 

Resting his hands on the slick stone railing, Jon inhales the cool, briney wind, lets the pounding din of the hall roll off of him. Pyke is a rugged place, a lonesome, austere place, but Jon is beginning to understand why Theon longs for it so. Why the ironborn love their ugly, stunted islands so dearly. The sea is like a living thing, a constant presence, a creature that permeates hearth and home and body. It is patient, but ruthless. A man could not turn back the tide, no matter how gentle it came. It could not be tamed, only ridden for a time. One day, the sea will erode this castle into sand, long after everyone in the great hall is long dead. One breaking wave at a time, the waters would reclaim the very substance of Pyke behind the waves. 

Moving on, Jon crosses the bridge and ascends the spiral stairs to Theon’s rooms. The rest of the castle is deserted; no guards, no serving girls or footmen. The arched corridor is empty. Torches have burned out.

There is light shining from beneath Theon’s door. Jon can hear him grumbling, stoking the fire to life with an iron poker. It makes Jon smile.

He knocks out of habit, but the door is not barred and he lets himself in. 

As they had been since the morning, Theon’s rooms are in a bit of disarray. Clothing cast about and empty cups upon the desk. But there is a newly roaring fire in the large hearth, the black stone kraken of the mantel glowing orange, the great white pelt of some animal on the floor. 

Theon is standing at the carved desk, staring out the windows, though there is not much to be seen but the dark sky and darker sea. 

"Ought to have the thrall whipped for abandoning my fire," Theon sneers when he sees Jon enter.

"I'm sure they were needed to man the hall. Your countrymen require much help in keeping their cups full."

“Pack of jackals, the lot of them. They might at least have pretended to be impressed by my return.”

“I am sure they are plenty impressed. It’s not the sort of thing where men can speak freely. Perhaps they found it ill-advised to show you too much favour over your sister.”

“Aye, they cheered good and long for her. Gods, you’d think she’d conquered the mainland singlehanded, the way they scream for her. Must all be hoping to wed her themselves, the fools. Her husband will have to compete with her axes for a place in his marriage bed. If she ever takes one at all.”

“They are reserving judgment, perhaps,” Jon offers, “that does not mean they discount you.”

“No, it is my sister who discounts me,” Theon gripes. “I will be her ally or I will be nothing. And every man in that hall knows it. I am cowed by a woman. I am a joke to them all.”

“I do not think any man in that hall considers your sister a joke,” Jon says with a light scoff. “If he does, it is too his own folly. She managed to rally these willful lords behind her. And you are her heir and supporter.”

“I am her loyal pet.” 

“It is not as horrible as you think. I was sitting in the benches. No man said anything of the sort.”

Theon grimaces, but does not argue further. He looks at the fire burning in the hearth, a hurt expression on his handsome face.

"Well," Jon croons, changing his approach, "you looked quite smart in your new clothes."

"Combed wool and boiled leather," scoffs Theon. "I'm dressed like one of your father's stableboys."

"Finest clothes I ever saw a common stableboy in."

"They don't dress fine here. You saw the hall. Ringmail and oilcloth. Seal pelts and goat hair."

"And you outshone them all."

Theon grumbles. But he allows Jon to remove the cloak and doesn't shrug when Jon rests his chin on his shoulder.

Instead, Theon turns his head and kisses Jon hungrily.

“Tonight, you take me.”

“Shall I?” Jon smiles into the kiss.

“Yes.” Theon’s hands roam up Jon's back, wrenching his clothes. “I need it.”

Jon slips a hand under Theon’s half-unlaced doublet. “It has been some time.”

Theon hisses at the touch. “Don’t tease.”

“Tease? We’ve hardly begun.”

Hips rocking, Theon groans in frustration, “Wicked little imp. You always manage to develop a sense of humour right at the moment when you ought to be most sincere.”

“And then there's you, always impatient.” Jon nips the stubble along Theon’s jaw. “It’s like you’re goading me to take you rough.”

There is a swell of pride within Jon when he feels how Theon jolts at that. Being able to reduce the confident, wolfish Theon Greyjoy to a mewling bedmate always gives Jon a queer sense of accomplishment.

His hand roams under Theon tunic, tracing his flanks, circling a nipple with his leather glove. Theon bites his lip. 

Perhaps this is due to the presentation at the feast. Being made to stand before his countrymen and renounce his claim, his title, placed firmly at the knee of his sister's rule. Theon has always chafed at humility. No heartfelt welcome from the highborn lords awaited him. Only suspicion and mockery. And so now he wants to rebel, strike out, however feebly. At Jon, who is safe to lash out at. Who will scoop up all his hurt and his anger gladly and make something worthwhile out of it. See Theon safely through it.

Jon tilts Theon's head back. "Is that what you want, Greyjoy? Rough?" 

" _Yes._ "

A ravening smile unfurls on Jon's mouth. "Undress."

Theon's hands fly to obey. Pulling his laces free, he shrugs out of his quilted doublet, yanking the black tunic over his head. The embroidery and fine wool come off. The brass-studded krakens and enameled daggers. The costume and finery of the Son of Pyke falls away and beneath there is only Theon. As Jon knows him.

While Theon is unlacing his trousers, Jon decides he cannot wait and shoves him hard back onto his bed. Jon clambers over top, and they wrestle for a moment, tussling and grappling. He gains the advantage. Sitting on Theon's chest, Jon pins both of his arms to the bed.

"Jon..." Theon starts, then cuts himself off.

"Change your mind?"

"No. Just that, I …"

Theon loses his voice again. He turns his head away. A far cry from his boasting and eagerness even a moment ago. But then, these flashes of sudden melancholy are something Theon has displayed since they were children.

"What is it?" Jon asks, bending low, touching his brow Theon's temple. "Still, even now, there are things you're reluctant to ask of me?"

Theon's heartbeat roars beneath Jon’s hands. What could be so terrible here, in their bed?

Jon kisses along his neck. "Will you not confide in me?" 

"It is not your confidence I doubt, Jon."

"Then what?"

"What I want is... unseemly."

Jon laughs. "How happy for me, then. I do not take you to bed for your decorum and your courtesy."

Outside the casement window, far below, the waves break against the cliffs. Voices of the gathered attendees travel up through the tower, across the swaying rope bridges and stone archways, carried far over the open sea. The sounds of revelry, song, and music. Lutes and drums and dancing. 

"Tell me this unseemly desire of yours," rasps Jon into his lover's hair.

Theon is still reluctant. "You will not balk?"

"No, I promise."

Theon shuts his eyes then, exhales so hard that Jon bobs where he sits astride his chest. 

" _Force me._ " Theon pleads.

The voice is so strained, hardly a whisper, a growl. Like it pains Theon to speak it.

It's not what Jon had expected. Not at all.

Suddenly where his hands grip Theon's wrists are searing hot, like Jon is holding a red hot iron. The air between their bodies stifles.

He swallows, his mouth dry. "It's that what you want?"

Eyes squeezed tight, Theon nods against the cushion.

Sitting up, Jon’s hands find his own belt, hitched at his waist. Soft, treated leather, studded with iron eyelets. He unwinds it without looking, something he’s done every day since he was a boy. It could be done in his sleep.

Looped belt in his hand, Jon rises off Theon’s body. “Turn over.”

A watery gasp bursts from Theon, a jittery, panicked noise. Scrambling, hands clenching in their bedding, Theon flips onto his front. Head turned away from the mattress so he may breathe. 

Jon takes him by the arms. Wrenches them behind Theon’s back. Binds them tightly with his long belt. Beneath him, Theon gasps softly into the cushion.

“Well,” Jon breathes, tracing his fingertips down Theon’s exposed spine, “what have we here, then? An ironborn reaver, taken alive?”

This sort of thing he had first encountered living in the brothels of Braavos. It was a common enough fancy of the patrons, and one Jon overheard with some frequency. To playact. To pretend. Some men had wanted to whisk away girls from peril and be thanked in kind. Some had desired to _be_ peril. Have girls resist, scream, cry. If they paid enough, the girls would play along.

“Your kind fight to the death, most often,” Jon murmurs, finding the words come easy, straddled over Theon's legs. “Yet you don’t seem to be overly damaged. Did you surrender, little sea monster?”

“Never,” Theon denies. 

“A craven, then? Cowering from battle until my forces pulled you out of hiding.”

Theon thrashes against Jon’s thighs. “Shut up.”

“A cowardly little sea monster, then. What should be done with you now?”

“You’ll not touch me, scum. I am the son of Lord Greyjoy. Do not harm me and my father will pay any ransom.”

“No he won’t.” Jon seizes Theon by the hair, wrenches his head back. He bows over Theon, speaks right against his ear, “Wonder how I know that? It’s because we already sent word to your traitor, rebel father seeking your release. And he _would not have you_.”

“ _Liar._ ” Theon wrenches against his restraints.

“Sent back our offer of ransom unopened. Claimed he had no living son,” Jon growls, “just a whore that insists on using his house’s name.”

“No, no you lie! He wouldn't —”

“It would seem he does not care what happens to you.”

“Shut up!”

“So I suppose then,” taunts Jon, “that we may do whatever we’d like with you. No house will ransom you. As a hostage you have no further use so we can use you as we wish. You should be grateful that I asked you be brought to me, else you would be amongst the men outside. And they would make thorough use of you. Over and over. Can you hear them out there clamouring? But in here, there is only me you must obey.” He throws Theon forward by the hair, into the mussed bedding. He grips Theon’s naked hips roughly and yanks him up, forcing him to present himself.

“Don’t,” begs Theon, his voice suddenly strangled and frantic, “not that, please.”

“Call _mercy_ ,” Jon says, unscrewing the lid on their bedside jar of salve. 

“What?” 

“Call for _mercy_ ,” he repeats, a heavy emphasis on the word, “or I’ll not stop. No matter how you scream, if you cry, if you beg, I’ll not stop, not unless you call for _mercy_. Do you understand?”

Theon is quiet for a moment, hands grasping at their leather binding, before he presses his brow into the bed. “Yes.”

With two fingers, Jon scoops out a dollop of salve. “Will you beg for mercy?”

“Never,” snarls Theon, glaring over his wrenched shoulder.

“Defiance does not suit you, little sea monster,” Jon says, then jams his two fingers inside of him.

Theon makes a most undignified noise, half a sob, half a gasp, shocked, scandalized. Defeated, he hangs his head in the sheets.

Jon does not prepare him long. Only a moment or two, before he unlaces his own clothes and slickens himself. Still dressed, he bows over Theon and presses inside with a single vicious thrust.

When he does, Theon groans, low and long, making a bow of his back. His hips lift into Jon’s, easing the penetration. With his arms lashed behind his back, there is little else Theon can do but spread his legs and allow Jon what he wants.

“That’s it,” Jon praises, “good lad. Just take it, and it will be over with soon.”

“Oh gods,” Theon whimpers.

He is so hot inside. Scorching, tight. It makes Jon falter each time. Stop and master himself so that he does not succumb to frenzy, finishing on the spot like a virgin boy. Gripping Theon’s bound arms with his free hand, Jon breathes, clenches his jaw. Nowadays he understands why Theon was so driven to distraction by the act as an adolescent. Being inside someone, the raw heat and friction, it’s a sensation uncompared. No wonder men fight wars over it.

Jon finds he likes it, being in command. At first, well, perhaps he had been unsure of that part of himself, too unfamiliar with the act, too insecure. But this, having his lover’s body quiver and yield to him, offered to him, it fills Jon with such heady confidence that he almost does not recognize himself. 

With that, he sets his pace. Steady and ruthless and deep, so deep. What would he do, if he were not at all concerned for Theon’s enjoyment? This, he decides. Ride him hard and long. Use him as a plaything. Like he would use his own hand as a boy. Build rapidly, brutally, until the pleasure crested like a wave that he could not hold back any more than he could hold back the sea. 

Each thrust knocks the air from Theon’s lungs in a cry; Jon knows how it feels. Feels it on the nights Theon takes him hard and ruthless, never stopping to let Jon catch his breath or beg for more. Those times, even his very breath is not his own. 

Like that, Jon conquers Theon’s body from the inside out. 

When Jon comes, he is silent. His mouth falls open in a gasp. Pressing down on Theon’s back he drives himself to completion with a few final, savage thrusts. Throws his head back to the ceiling, releasing with a long exhale. The wave crests and breaks over him. Theon’s body contracts around him and he buries his face in the bedding, trying to hide the broken whimpers that escape him.

Finished, Jon withdraws, pulls out of Theon with a grunt. He collapses over top of him, heavy and solid, breathing hard into Theon’s hair.

He can feel Theon’s heart hammering, _feel_ it pounding through the back of his ribs. Trapped between their bodies, Theon’s arms shift, realign, but no longer struggle.

Instead, he seems to have surrendered utterly, not even maintaining the pretense of resistance. When Jon withdraws from him, Theon sags into the tangled bedding, legs splayed, head lolled, back heaving with laboured breath.

Jon flops down beside him, spent. Theon does not move. 

As a fancy, Jon reaches beneath him and takes Theon’s cock in his grip. He is terribly, shamefully hard.

“No, please,” Theon whimpers, “don’t. Don’t make me.”

Jon snatches him by the hair, pressing his mouth right against Theon’s ear. “Mercy?”

After a pause, Theon only shakes his head.

So Jon brings him off with his hand. It does not take much. Theon moans and objects but soon he is thrusting into Jon’s hand as best he can, crying out each time, “No—no—no—no…”

Then he comes hard, hips stuttering, eyes screwed shut. After, he slumps flat against the bed, arms still trussed behind his back, face buried in the sheets to hide his shame.

Jon reaches over and unfastens the belt. Theon’s arms fall away to his sides. Winding the studded leather around his hand, Jon drops it over the side of the bed to the floor. 

After a moment of stillness, Theon stretches and lays down, straightening his legs, burrowing into the cushions. Quietly, Jon lays beside him, stroking up and down his arm. He stares up at the beams of the ceiling, feeling Theon’s heartbeat slow beneath his fevered skin. In this room, together, it’s as if they are leagues and leagues away. Back in Braavos, or even further. Some far off place where no one knew them, where they had only each other and wanted for nothing more. 

Jon lets his mind be blank, lets his own heart slow and pleasure ebb. His head upon the down-filled cushions. His hand on Theon’s shoulder. 

He nudges Theon slightly with his elbow. “You enjoyed that?”

“Of course I did.” Theon shrugs defensively.

Jon rolls onto his side to face him, hair swept to one side in a mess. “You should have asked me sooner.”

"Thought it might put you off the idea."

“It wouldn't have. I am not as shy of it any more as you seem to think I am."

"Oh?" Theon replies in jest. "Shy of what, now?"

"Fucking."

Jon says it plainly, evenly, without so much as a blush. 

As always, Theon tries to cover his shock with wit. "My, he can even say the word."

"We've been at it for years," protests Jon. "I lived alongside you in a brothel!"

"Oh, I remember our days in the Braavosi whorehouse, but I remember that you were not so daring, even then. Even with a pair of bare tits in every room and couples rutting on the cushions, you still would shy away from me if I touched you too boldly."

"Well, that’s different. In front of others… it's not…"

"What? _Decent_?"

"Safe." Jon touches Theon's face. "I did not want to be blatant in a way that might get us killed."

"Of all the things that might have gotten us killed in Braavos, fucking each other was not one. It's a city built of whores! They are the Titan's most prized commodity. They pay for the playhouses and the harbours and the roads. Women, men, those who are both. Or neither. All are revered in the secret city. No, it's not the discretion that you were after, I think, though you have always been shy. But it is that you do not know how to stomach the idea that… someone might want you."

Heat rises on Jon’s face, then. Theon smiles in victory. His long fingers stroke up Jon’s bare abdomen, flick over one of his nipples. Jon gasps and his eyes fall shut.

“I know you, Jon Snow,” croons Theon, a slight giggle evident in his voice, “and you think you are an old hand at fucking by now, and mayhaps you are. But being _wanted?_ Having others want you? See you? _Desire_ you? No, that terrifies you, still, I think. You don’t know what to do with that at all.”

Jon chuckles, opens his mouth to deny it, but just then Theon’s fingertips tickle down his ribs and Jon barks and shoves him.

After a brief bout of horseplay they settle once more. Theon’s bed is now thoroughly mussed, the cushions thrown haphazard, the sheets and the goose down-filled quilt spilling to the floor. It smells of them, their bodies and their sweat, mixed with the smoke of the fire and the sweetflag incense that is always burning. And the sea. Always the sharp, briney scent of the sea.

A thought occurs to Jon. “Is that what you were after with that bit of playacting, then?”

“Hmm?” 

“What you asked of me,” Jon explains. “Did you need to be… wanted?”

Theon looks away and shrugs. “Perhaps I was tired of always having to do all the work."

"Don't be smart."

"I never am, you say."

Jon does not let him dodge. "I want to know. What brought this on?"

With a sigh, Theon looks up at the canopy. "Let me ask you this instead: is there anything in all the world that I could do that would drive you away? Something so horrible, so cruel, that you would never forgive me?”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Just think on it before you argue. Is there something that you could not abide, no matter how you may love me? If I beat you? If I shamed you before others? If I whipped you when you disobeyed? Or if I only permitted you to eat my scraps. Kept you locked in my room and forbade you to go out. Would you allow that of me? Would you stay?”

Jon frowns, aghast. “Of course not.”

Theon closes his eyes as if he understands. “I know. You have your dignity and you’d not surrender it to anyone.” He pauses, and his voice quavers. “But I would.”

“You would —”

"If that’s what you demanded of me, I would surrender my dignity, my pride. I've been doing it all my life for men who love me not at all. I imagine there's nothing I wouldn't endure to keep that love. Sometimes, I dream and… I am frightened by what I want from you. By what I would allow from you. By what… _moves_ me.” He spreads his palm over the rumpled sheets of the bed. “Like this. This is _demented._ To want to be…. But I would let you. If you demanded it, I know that I would. I know it in my heart. And it frightens me. Perhaps it makes me a coward, but there is no transgression too far. There is nothing you could do to me that would compel me to send you away. Being without you is… unthinkable."

Jon does not know what to say.

The silence upsets Theon. “Are you sickened by me?”

“No,” he assures, “not sickened.”

“Perhaps you ought to be.” The waves roar outside the dark window like a breathing animal. “That’s the truth of it that I realized some time ago, the thing that frightens me most: I need you more than you need me.” 

That sounds ludicrous to Jon.

He would deny it, if he thought it would matter to Theon at all.

Shifting close, he lays his head upon Theon’s shoulder. He breathes deep the cool night air and enjoys the afterglow. It hadn’t been completely shocking when Theon had asked for what he had. True, he had never asked exactly for the fantasy of being forced, but there were times when Theon needed to be taken roughly to quiet his mind. It is how he soothes himself. Punishes himself. Sometimes, they seem to be the same thing, to Theon.

He looks content, now. The humiliation of standing before his people and yielding up his claim forgotten, or at least, ignored. Submitting was not what the ironborn did. But Theon had done it. And he had not flinched.

He dare not say it, but Jon is proud. He hopes that Theon does not live to regret the choice. 

But Theon’s true heart has always been difficult to discern, even now, even for Jon. Theon strives so hard to keep his fear, his hurt, even his happiness locked away. Anything heartfelt is a danger to him. In place of it he held his front of rakish indifference and sharp wit like his sword and shield against the world. And Theon had learned that in Winterfell, or so Jon thought, but now he is not so certain. Perhaps Theon had mastered it long before then. Against his cruel brothers and harsh father. Against the people of the Iron Islands who had seen a gentle boy and been disgusted.

"Were you ever happy in Winterfell?" asks Jon quietly.

"Of course I was."

It seems too brisk a reply. "You don't have to lie. I only ask."

"I do not lie. I was happy. All of my happiest memories are of Winterfell."

"Not of Pyke?"

Scoffing, Theon shakes his head. "Pyke was not a happy place when I was a child."

"But you missed it so."

"I missed... I missed belonging. And my mother. The ships and the sea. But truly, it's becoming clear to me that what I longed for was something that I never even had."

"How do you mean?"

"All the things I dreamed of, the things I longed for while I was in Winterfell... they were not things I had ever had in Pyke. Not really. Just something I one day wished to have. I had always imagined that upon my return to Pyke, at last, I would be..." Theon pauses, searches for the correct word. “Wanted.”

“And are you wanted now?”

“I am.” He glances at Jon, something truly vulnerable in his eyes. “But not by the Iron Islands, it would appear. All over the world I have gone looking for the place that would have me. And more’s the pity. It is not a people or a place that wants me. It is you.”

Jon smiles, blushing even. “You _do_ listen.”

“My little wolf,” Theon muses, tracing Jon’s face with his fingertips, “with you I am wanted. You must never leave my side.”

“I’ll not.”

Theon does not smile back at him. “You swear to me?”

“I have done,” Jon answers smoothly, “near a thousand times. What is one more?” He kisses Theon before he can react and adds in a whisper against his lips, “I swear to you. You have me. Always.”

At that, Theon does smile. 

After some time — minutes or hours, Jon cannot say — he feels his body growing heavy and slack. How late has it gotten? How long until dawn? He should return to his chambers.

When he goes to rise, Theon pulls him back to the sheets. “Stay,” he commands.

“And if we are found?” Jon protests, half-hearted.

“Tonight, I handed my sister a whole kingdom. She will do me the courtesy of looking the other way for the night.”

That sounds like needless risk to Jon. But if Theon thinks it safe, Jon will not argue. 

It is warm beneath their blankets and fleece. Simple but well-made, as are most things of the Iron Islands. Not an ostentatious place but unadorned and practical. Even compared to the North. A fire burns down low in Theon’s hearth but Jon finds he is warm enough.

In the dark, he finds Theon’s hand, takes it. “I am not wanted by anyone else either, you know.”

Theon knows that is not true. Jon has the letter to prove it. “I will always want you, Jon.”

“Then neither of us need worry.”


	4. Theon

The path down the headland from Pyke is rocky and steep in places. A trail of brittle, black shale pebbles crushed to dust beneath cart wheels and hooves. Their little party picks its way down to Lordsport single file on horseback. 

The uplands of the island are open and largely treeless. Only the odd stunted, windblown trunk along the way. The poor soil does not support much more. Mostly red moss and chickweed. Feral sheep, distant white figures, graze up and down the hillsides and keep well clear of the travellers. 

High up on the headland, nothing at all impedes the view of the wide, grey sea, visible in every direction to the horizon, beneath the unyielding sky.

At least Theon’s mount is surefooted. Well-bred horses are hard to come by on the Iron Islands, but the shaggy garron Yara has given him is a sturdy creature, if ugly and inelegant. He has not been in the saddle in more than a year and it is obvious to him the moment he had mounted. Once, Theon had been a proud horseman, but now his legs are sore and his posture slumped. Uncomfortable, he shifts in his saddle. 

But despite him, Theon’s mare steadily picks its way down the path towards Lordsport. Ahead on the path rides Yara and behind him trails Jon. Yara rides as boldly as any man, dressed in riding trousers and with a sword on her hip. Her mount is a much finer animal and Theon tries to not see it for the slight that it is.

This morning, near after dawn, he had been woken by a few of Yara’s men. His sister has a gift awaiting him Lordsport, and requests that he accompany her to the harbour, they had said. Theon had grumbled about being roused so early and dallied. Let her wait.

Also, he had insisted on bringing along Jon.

To Theon’s disappointment, Jon had only frowned. “Am I permitted?”

Rolling his eyes, Theon had clicked his tongue. “ _Permitted._ I just gave her the whole of the Iron Islands with hardly a protest. She’ll allow me a guest to Lordsport. Put on a cloak and join me.”

So Jon had dressed and come along.

Yara, though, had been unsurprised to see Jon. Though she had clicked her tongue with a malicious little smirk when she met them atop her dappled mare. 

“Ah, and with fresh sunlight, your shadow returns,” she had teased as they began their trek. “He still looks quite sullen — does he not know how to swim? Perhaps we ought to leave him behind, if you could bear it.”

And Theon had scowled but Jon had smiled at her gamely. 

“Perhaps not as skilled a swimmer as an ironman,” Jon had offered, “as I’m told your people's children are taught the sea before they learn to walk. Though I take small pride in that I no longer get sick from the waves as I once did. My sealegs, as you say, have grown in.”

It had made Yara laugh in a way that could either be cruel or sweet. She enjoys toying with people, perhaps, but enjoys more that Jon is unphased by it.

As Theon leads his horse after his sister, he can feel Jon’s eyes on him from behind. Without a word he knows that Jon is still careful of Yara’s fierceness. He would rather curtsy for every scrap of dignity she allows either of them. Fine, if that’s what he likes. But Theon cannot stand her mockery. 

It has been eight or nine days since the feast at Pyke. The memory of the night still chafes at Theon. The smokey hall, the song, the drink. All that revelry to conceal the true purpose: seeing Balon Greyjoy’s lost son swear his life to another’s rule. Memory of his address is mostly a fog, though sober he had been. 

A few of the captains are hosted at Pyke still. They treat with his sister, vying for her favour, each suggesting she marry this son or that. Take him as an advisor over another. The shaken loyalties and fealties among the noble ironborn remain in suspicion due to Euron Greyjoy’s attempt at the seat of Pyke. Theon does not envy his sister the task of reestablishing each alliance one old bearded lord at a time.

After word came down of his uncle’s rebellion, Theon had never dreamed he would set eyes on the Iron Islands again. And part of him had made a sort of peace with that, as a man must make peace with sorrowful truths. But after all that he has endured, escaping the king’s justice, the wild North, living on the streets of the Free Cities, it is the humiliation of standing before his lords and captains that felt like too much to bear. Denouncing his claim in front of every lord of his lands — lands that were his by _right_ — wounds him, even still. 

He had been meant for something, once. It had kept him alive for so long he almost had not realized how much it still does. But now it is gone. 

And in its place, nothing. Without the Seastone Chair, what is he meant for?

He clenches his teeth so tightly his jaw burns. He lets out a slow, quiet breath. Gulls cry and wheel in the distant sky. The cold salt wind whips at his hair. As they round a bend, Lordsport comes into view at the distant base of the slope and it’s thick forest of masts and yard beams swaying on the waves. Two dozen ships that Theon knows by name. More that he doesn’t. Further out to sea beyond the anchored ships, huge fronds of golden kelp choke the water’s surface, churning veils of white sea foam. Seals and otters sun themselves on the black rocks.

Theon pulls up his mount for a moment. As the terrain flattens and the trail widens, Jon rides up next to him and they urge their mounts down the trail side by side. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asks gently.

Theon beams at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Of course Jon knows. He always knows. It's infuriating. His brow furrows in that boyish pout, but he does not press. 

Lordsport is so much smaller than Theon recalls it being. Though, he supposes, that is the nature of childhood memories. It is a town hardly half as large as White Harbour, but when he had been a boy, it had felt like all the great wonders of the world could be found in Lordsport. Ships from untold worlds, carrying goods from further still. Ibbenese harpooners selling amber whale oil. Men in the colourful feathered cloaks of the Summer Isles, offering jewels as large as apples, crimson and purple and fiery green. Ground lenses and fine mirrors from Lys, reaved by corsairs and sold. Escaped slaves from Old Ghis. Sorcerers from Asshai. Sailors from the Free Cities, from Qarth, as far away as Yin and Vahar.

Riding down the cobbles now, Theon is somewhat chastened by his childhood wonder. Lordsport is hardly a port of fancies and rarities. More a crossroads village. Children chase dogs through the muddy streets. Fishwives hawk the early morning catches from stalls along the quay. Smiths black with soot hammer iron and steel in the open forges. 

A few of the smallfolk shout for Lady Yara, wishing her blessings and good fortune. They pay the two men following her no mind.

He doesn’t look at Jon. Can’t bear to see the assessment of Theon’s homeland on his face.

Yara leads them down the strand to the shipshed, a large, long building, tiered down into the water’s edge. In the high open bays of the shipshed, men cut timber with long saws, shave down planks with jack planes, bend ribbands on the frame. A half-made ship is underway in the yard, looking like the skeleton of a massive beast. The scent of raw cut lumber overpowers even the sea, here. Wood shavings litter the road as dense as autumn leaves. There are many ships moored at the large quay there. Many more anchored further out in the bay. Masts bobbing up and down on the waves like a moving forest.

Theon doesn’t need to ask, though. He knows which ship is his on sight.

In exchange for his compliance, he would be gifted a ship; this he knew. But he had not been expecting so striking a vessel. A hundred feet long or so, from prow to stern and a hull black with pitch. With empty holds the hull sits high upon the water. Only one mast, but Theon counts twenty-five oars along one side, which means fifty in all. An upraised, black prow soars above the deck, made for slipping through rough seas like a knife. Black are the sails as well, proudly sewn with the golden Greyjoy kraken. 

At the sight of her, Theon must quell his excitement. He does not want to seem so easily placated by his sister’s gesture. 

But the ship is brand new from the shipshed, finely-made, strong and solid. Far more than he has dared imagined. And so he cannot help but smile when he glances back at Jon.

Coming along side the hull along the pier, Theon spots a strange boy upon the foredeck. Wielding a broom nearly twice his own height, the lad is diligently focused to his task, sweeping and tending the deck. But when the boy sees them approaching down the pier, he abandons the broom, scurrying over the deck and down the gangplank to meet them on the quay. 

The boy is far too young for Theon to recognize, no older than four-and-ten, dressed in a filthy grey tunic and dark wool breeches, both far too large for his underfed frame. 

“Oi,” snaps Theon, “who’re you?”

Before the boy can answer, Yara speaks for him. “He’s one of the Botley bastards,” she says, with a sardonic flourish of her hand, “and he’s to be your squire. This ship here was meant for Lord Botley, when it was still in the drydocks. We reached amicable terms for him to give it up for the Prince of Iron Islands.”

“Gods be good, a bastard? Doesn’t Botley already have five sons?” 

“It’s six, now. But no, the lad’s not Lord Sawane’s son. A nephew of his half-brother, I believe it was. They breed like rabbits, they do.”

“Alright then,” Theon answers slowly. He’d not known it was to acquire a charge. 

The boy’s quite small with a pointed face, ratted brown hair hanging in his eyes. He has a skittish look. 

When the boy continues not to speak up, Theon scowls. “What’s the matter with you, then? Don't you know how to properly introduce yourself to a lord?”

“He’s a mute,” Yara informs with a shrug, “but eager. Been tending to the ship all morning waiting on you. Most squires never shut up, as it is. Thought you might prefer one without a tongue.”

Grimacing, Theon’s frown deepens. “Have you not got a tongue, lad?”

The boy opens his mouth, and Theon is relieved to see a small pink tongue inside unscathed. 

Yara only shrugs again. “He’s called Wex. Doesn’t know his letters, but he’s clever, and listens well. Better with a dagger than most men are with their hands. And Lord Botley was glad to finally be rid of him.”

“Alright then,” Theon assesses, fixing the lad with a hard eye. “Not dim-witted as well, are you? Understand me well enough?” 

Wex nods deeply.

“Well, I hardly see the trial in having a quiet squire. As long as you do as you’re told and keep out from underfoot.” 

The boy smiles at that, wide and toothy and he nods again. 

“Right. Have you ever sailed before?”

The boy shakes his head vigorously.

“Have you a bag? A sea chest? Any belongings?”

Wex's face falls. Curious, confused. Again, he shakes his head. Yara snorts as if to mock him for such a question, but Theon speaks before she can.

“We’ll get you some fresh clothes made, then, I suppose. Greyjoy colours, if you’re just a bastard meant to be squiring for me.” Meeting Yara’s eyes, Theon dares, “Shall someone come take his measurements? I can’t very well have a squire dressed in rags as I’m sailing around meeting greenland lords.”

"Aye, fine. We’ll have a clothier sent to your chambers." Yara is plainly annoyed to have to clothe the boy, but she relents. "You and your little squire shall have the finest silken garments of the ironborn, brother. Your greenland lords shall be greatly impressed.”

“Brilliant,” Theon grins and turns back to the black ship bobbing in the tides. “C’mon, then, let’s get the look of this fair maiden, shall we?”

Yara scoffs. “Not quite fair, is she,” she remarks, leading them to the edge of the dock. With the toe of her boot, she taps one of the mooring posts the ship is lashed to. Ropes coil around it, green with algae where they dip beneath the waters. “Dark like ink and mean like a dog. More of a sea bitch, this one.”

“I like that,” Theon decides. She means it in mockery, but he hadn’t given much thought on what to name his new ship anyway, and it amuses him to see her roll her eyes. “ _Sea Bitch_ would be a fine name for her.”

Both Yara and Jon tisk, which makes Theon grin wickedly. That decides it, then.

The four of them ascend the gangplank to the main deck. As he sets foot upon the newly treated planks, Theon’s heart flutters in his throat, and he must look out over the railing to master himself. If he sheds a tear in front of his sister and this bastard child… well he’d surely rather die. Jon hesitates at his side, leans over the railing to see the waves lapping at the hull. He smiles and looks back at Theon. Theon swallows back the urge to grab his hand.

“Beautiful,” Jon says with a grin.

The main deck is newly varnished, dark and glossy. It rises and falls softly with the waters. The scent of hewn timber and pine resin is nearly overpowering. At the bow the high, curving prow rises over the docks, like the head of an axe carving through the waters. The long waist of the ship runs a full two thirds of its length, ending in the apex of the foredeck, beneath the prow. The railings are high, to provide rowers some protection from the spray of the sea.

At the stern end there is a raised quarterdeck where the whipstaff is manned and the captain can oversee those on deck below. Not too high, for she is a sleek vessel. Only four or five steep steps above the main deck. Standing against it, Theon could rest his chin on the quarterdeck. He reaches up and touches the planks of the higher deck with his hand. The wood is warmed by the sun, and Theon feels a sort of power thrumming inside it, the churning of the waves working up from the hull through the timber and into his skin.

Behind him he can hear Jon chattering softly to young Wex, telling his new squire that he too is a lord’s bastard. 

"We'll be seeing more of each other, then," Jon is saying, "if you'll be attending Lord Greyjoy at the castle."

“Endearing yourself to my squire already, Snow?”

Wex and Jon both turn to look at him. The boy looks pale to have been caught in impropriety. 

Behind him, Yara snorts. “Come on, boy. You've been on the wharves since dawn, haven't you? Show us about.”

That brightens Wex, at least. He beams and darts ahead of Theon, bidding them to follow with a wave of his hand. 

Immediately before the raised quarterdeck is the hatch that leads below into the hold. Wex swings open a large trapdoor in the main deck, pulling at it until Jon helps him to lift it open. One by one, they scale the steep step-ladder that leads below. 

Overhead, the beams of the main deck are low. Theon nearly has to hunch, but if he stands straight he can feel the tips of his hair brush the beams overhead.

Below deck, in the cramped space, the scent of newly hewn timber is doubly as powerful. Sweet lingering cedar planks that comprise the bulkhead, the hull, still shimmering with pine pitch and resin. Jon is not speaking now, with Wex ahead of them and Yara at their backs. 

Theon cannot help but wonder what he’s thinking. Jon's northern face never betrays anything but forlorn sulking. That damned letter, though. They had discussed returning North, after Jon had shown Theon the letter he'd received in Braavos from Lord Stark, but they had agreed the journey there would be too dangerous, still. Perhaps Jon regrets conceding to that now. Braavos had been difficult, but it had been warm, and they had built a home of their own as nameless commoners. Now, it is different. A land that expects something of him, but has taken it all away. A people that demand greatness while casting him aside. Does that frighten Jon as much as it does Theon, or is being a bastard always the same no matter where you are? Theon reaches out and briefly squeezes Jon’s fingers as they walk.

Toward the fore, there is the galley, where the crew eat, and meals are prepared if there is fresh food to be had. Barrels of provisions are also stored below deck: smoked meats and hardtack. Further toward the bow are the crew’s quarters. Men hung hammocks from bays of vertical beams in two tiers, above and below. Sea chests are to be roped down so they do not slide about. Theon pauses to smile at them. There are many. His ship will be full.

Aftward is the captain’s cabin. The door is latched, as all doors aboard ships are. Wex waits, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an eager puppy as he waits for the other three to reach him. 

Theon draws back the iron bolt and steps inside. 

It is cramped, little more than an attic garret. The cabin is as wide as the stern, some five yards from one side of the hull to the other. The ceiling is somewhat higher, being below the raised portion of the quarterdeck, but Theon could still reach a hand up and touch the beams with a bent arm. The stern wall, astonishingly, has windows. Small, glass windows that are leaded into diamond-shapes, allowing a precious amount of light in, but the glass is so thick that nothing can be seen through them other than the grey-green blur of the sea.

Otherwise, the small cabin is well-furnished. A bunk against the wall with a featherbed upon it. Shelves in the wall beside. A desk bolted to the floor. A carved, stuffed chair. 

The four of them can stand in the cabin, but only just. Having seen, Yara mutters to Wex and leads him off to inspect something, but Theon does not follow.

He exhales deeply. Cedar and resin whelm his senses, so powerful it hurts his temples. This is his now. A thing no man can take from him. Not his sister, not any lord, not the king. He will rule this ship as though it were his own kingdom. Upon the deck, upon the sea, he is lord and master here.

It is a suitable consolation.

Jon comes up behind him. “And what do you think? Is it all you hoped for?”

“More,” Theon admits with only Jon here to see.

“You are pleased?”

“I am.” Theon cannot keep himself from smiling. "I gave up the Iron Islands and in return was given a single ship. Anyone can see it for the insult that it is, but what of it? Insult is not so bitter a taste as it once was. I must force myself to be grateful, and so I shall be. With this ship I can go anywhere I please. Remain on the sea. Answer to no one. After Winterfell, it is more than I dared hope for. She is something that is mine. I can scarcely remember that feeling, any longer."

“It is not all that is yours.”

Theon smiles. “Aye, not all.” He presses a kiss to Jon’s mouth.

Briefly, Jon smiles, but he seems lost in thought as he looks over the cabin. Before Theon can ask, Jon speaks. “But surely this ship cannot be our home forever, though.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon frowns, and Theon knows what he will ask before he asks it. He’s always so sour-faced, when he is about to mention Winterfell and their promise to Robb; returning North.

“We cannot avoid it forever,” Jon says softly. He places his hand over his doublet, where Theon knows he keeps his Father’s letter he’d received in Braavos. Jon does not like to be without it on his person in Pyke. 

That blasted letter. Theon remembers the day. That mad day after they fought. When that young noble girl birthed her child on the floor of their boarding house's garden. Maybe the strangest day of Theon's life.

When Jon had shown him that letter, that had been the start of a debilitating dread, for Theon. A creeping terror that he has lived with since. That one day Jon give him up for Winterfell and leave him behind.

“Father will not stop looking for me," Jon contends, "and he swore that you would be—”

“Let’s not speak of that now,” Theon interrupts, kissing Jon lightly. “Don’t spoil it, please? Today, we shall not think on it. Today — today I’m a captain.” 

Slowly, Jon stows away his disappointment. He nods. “Aye, you’re right. I don’t mean to spoil —”

Too overcome to let him finish, Theon takes Jon’s face in his hands and kisses him again, hard, stealing the words from his mouth. Jon sinks into the kiss, sagging a little in Theon’s hold before Theon pulls away.

“Perhaps it is not a holdfast, but it is ours.”

Jon smiles at him, eyes soft. “No, it is _yours._ ”

It stirs something in Theon to hear him say it. Possessive. This ship is his, only his. No one could take her from him. Not his sister, not the Lord Stark, not the king. It buzzes warm under his skin, and Theon grabs a handful of Jon’s hair and bows to press his lips against Jon’s ear.

“And so are you.” A soft huff against Theon’s neck, like a gentle laugh. Jon reaches up and wraps his arms around Theon’s shoulders, but Theon grabs his hips and holds him close, firm. “And if you are mine, then you belong here on my ship, with me.”

Jon lets out a quiet hum of agreement. They’re alone, and this ship belongs to Theon. 

“I will have you on this ship a thousand times, Jon Snow. Do you hear me?”

A hitch in Jon’s breath before he nods.

“Mayhaps I could make a start,” he muses, running his hand up Jon’s thigh. “Perhaps make it to two thousand before we set sail.”

“Your sister is — she’ll discover us…”

Theon nips Jon’s throat before pulling away. “Aye, I suppose I’ll have to wait until she’s gone before breaking in the cabin,” he grins. 

Jon’s face is pink. It makes Theon chuckle as he gives Jon’s hair a playful tug. 

“But if I insisted… if I demanded it, here and now… would you refuse me?”

Mouth parted, cheeks flushed, Jon only breathes, “No.”

And gods, Theon must rein himself from taking him on the plank floor right there and then. Jon looks up at him as if he wants it, despite himself, breath quick and uneven and too loud to hide. It would be so easy to shove the cabin door closed and take Jon this way. Jon closes his eyes, lets out a shuddering breath as Theon brushes a black curl from his face.

“Alright then,” he grins once he’s mastered the urge, “let’s go find her and that boy, shall we?”

“Wex,” Jon reminds him, though Theon had not forgotten.

They find Yara and young Wex standing at the foredeck. Yara looks them over knowingly as they make their way to her.

“Is she to your liking, baby brother?”

Grinning, Theon answers, “She’ll do well enough, I suppose.”

A disapproving tisk from Jon beside him, but Theon ignores it as he swings up the stairs to meet Yara’s eyes. She’s shorter than him, just slightly. It is obvious to Theon that this frustrates her, being too close to be at eye level with him. 

She takes a casual step back. “Well, if she doesn’t, I’m sure I’ll hear no end of it.”

It makes Theon laugh, not entirely bitterly. “Do you expect me to be so ungrateful?”

“No,” Yara concedes, “but your crew will be some of my most loyal men. They will not hesitate to inform me.”

Theon’s smile falls. “What?”

“Dagmer was the only man to volunteer to the offer as it was,” Yara tells him with a cruel glint, “the rest of your crew are men I assured would have my favour should they watch over my baby brother on his maiden voyage.”

Jon shifts beside him, but Theon won’t break his sister’s gaze. “Spying on me already, sister? I’ve not even left port yet.”

Yara only shrugs. “It would only be spying if you attempt to hide something from me, would it not?”

“Fine then,” he grumbles after a breath, “if you find them worthy folk, I should expect them to be acceptable sailors, at the very least.”

“The best.”

She cannot let him have anything. Never stopped being an elder sister. 

Just moments before, he had been so truly happy. Happy in a way he can only recall being two or three times before in his lifetime. He had begged Jon not to quarrel. A wasted effort. Now a hurt burns in his mouth like a bitter taste. He glances over at Jon, but flinches away instantly at the naked pity on his face.

”Right, well,” Theon says sharply, “I’ve yet to break my fast. I’ll be returning back to Pyke, if that’s all?”

“Stay in Lordsport, brother. Otter Gimpknee’s inn has food to feed an army. Peppercrab stew and kelp laverbread.”

“I’ve had about my fill of fair Lordsport,” Theon insists. “Jon and I shall be going up the headland to Pyke.”

Beside him, Jon looks up at being mentioned.

“Don’t leave your new squire behind,” Yara says in a mocking sing-song voice, placing a hand on the crown of Wex’s tangled hair. 

Beckoning the boy without a word, Theon waits until Wex pulls away from her before he snaps back, “And don’t forget to send a clothier for him.”

As their little party of three make their way up the pier toward their hitched horses, Theon grumbles to the boy, “Know how to ride?”

Wex, startled to be asked the question, shakes his head.

“Useless,” Theon huffs.

“Theon,” admonishes Jon.

“Oh, shut up,” Theon snaps at him, “gods, I’ll not have your defiance as well. The boy rides with you, I’m in no mood to keep the brat steady.”

As Theon mounts his horse, Jon sighs, but he does not argue. Good, let the bastards bond over what a fucking cad he is. Theon doesn’t want to hear it. Heels into his horse, he gallops up the strand before he can hear anything further. A few children chasing chickens must dart out of the way of his horse.

By the time he’s made the climb to the castle, his temper has cooled and Theon feels well and truly like an ass. An outburst worthy of his younger self, and in front of this new mongrel squire of his no less. He’s embarrassed when Jon and Wex fall in line behind him, and does not want to look at either of them. It seems he is not the only one. Jon hops down from the horse and helps Wex down without so much as glancing at Theon.

“Will I be taking your squire in my chambers as well, Lord Greyjoy?” Jon asks tightly.

Quietly, Theon admits, “No.”

“Right,” dismisses Jon, clicking his tongue. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Handing off his mount to a groom, Jon leaves under the arch toward the stone bridge without another look. Though Theon knows he deserves it, it stings no less. He frowns after him a moment, watching Jon go. 

Wex is watching Theon intently, still at his side. 

Looking down at the boy, Theon instructs, “You’ll have to learn to ride.”

It eases his guilt slightly when Wex smiles at him. At least the brat can’t go telling Yara what a soft touch her brother has become.

It’s only once leading Wex into his chambers that Theon realizes he is not sure what he should have Wex do for him. He had more _been_ a squire than had one in Winterfell, and since then has done all necessities himself.

“Er…” he says, glancing about his chambers, “if you’ll light some candles, I suppose.” 

The boy trips over himself to rush to do as he asked. Theon cannot help but to be amused. Perhaps he could get used to this, he thinks. 

As the boy is placing lit candles upon the mantel, Theon feels his stomach rumble. It startles Wex. 

Theon sucks his teeth. “Right,” he admits, “I’ve not broken my fast yet, as I said. I’d meant to eat with… uh…” Wex tilts his head, but Theon waves dismissively. “Never mind. Nothing. Just go fetch me something to eat, would you?”

The skittish boy bows his head in an affirmative nod and scurries away. His obedience gives Theon a sense of esteem he thought he’d lost to him. 

The boy is quick to return with lemon water and a plate of stewed muscles and kelp laverbread. He beams as Theon takes the plate and flagon from him and sets them down upon the table by the hearth himself. Having the boy run chores for him is fine enough, but it’s quickly apparent to Theon that he has no business for Wex to tend to, and he seems so eager to prove himself. 

Frowning, he considers a moment. “You — would you check on Jon? Jon Snow, my northern guest. You rode with him from Lordsport. He’s a bastard like you, and just as quiet.” Theon smirks, and Wex mirrors him uncertainly. Not dull, but perhaps he doesn’t get the joke. “Bring him some food and wine as well. Or ale. Jon likes ale. And see if he is in need of anything. You can report back to me once he’s tended to. The clothier will be here for you some time today, I’m sure.”

The boy nods, expression curious, but he departs without further hesitation, shutting the door behind him.

Picking at the plate, Theon bemoans not asking young Wex to bring Jon to him, but perhaps it is for the better that Theon is distant for the time. Hopefully sending Wex is apology enough.

Hopefully Jon sees it that way, as well.


	5. Jon

Days after the journey to Lordsport, gifts start appearing at Jon’s door. First, it is a fine new pair of fawn-coloured riding gloves fashioned from ray leather. The next day, it is a pair of new shagreen wading boots left by the jamb.

Theon often apologizes with gifts. It comes easier to him than words. And Jon _is_ touched, but stays away. Let him stew a few more days.

Though in a week’s time, when Theon offers to take him riding, Jon wears his new gloves.

It is a fine line they walk together. It always has been. Both of them have guarded but earnest hearts. And by the same token, they both are quick to sense a slight and retaliate. Such had been the source of their boyhood squabbles. While it makes them both capable of great care and love, it also allows them to clash formidably. 

Sometimes it is all Jon can do to stand back and let Theon’s ruinous cruel moods run themselves out like a winter storm.

But in this case, Jon forgives. It is not hard to do. Returning to Pyke has Theon as frayed as Jon’s ever seen him. Displeased as he may be with him, no part of Jon wants to watch Theon fail. And it is a risky predicament they have walked into, here in his homeland. The ironborn abhor weakness almost as much they do mainlanders. To weather it together they must have peace between them. Carrying on with petty quarrels would be only to their ruin. Jon can forgive this one.

So when, a few days on from their riding excursion, Theon turns up in person at the door to his little cell bearing a newly-fashioned cloak as a token of apology, Jon lets him enter without complaint.

“It may be a bit long,” Theon presents the unfolded the cloak, “but it can be hemmed. The important thing is that it will keep you warm and dry as winter comes.”

Holding the cloak out by the shoulders, Theon turns it around so that Jon might see the whole thing in full. The window in his small room is narrow, but even in the dimness, the quality of the garment is apparent; seams drawn tight to keep out water, furs turned inward to keep in warmth. It is in the ironborn style: waxed canvas to repel water, lined with otter pelts with a finely-sewn fur mantle about the neck. The distinctive patterns of the animal’s pelt elevate the cloak from practical to beautiful; seals are darker on their backs than on their bellies, and the soft gradient from storm grey to silver is captured upon the mantle. Short, silvery grey fur speckled with clusters of dark rings that overlap and combine more densely toward the neck of the collar. A fine garment. 

And another detail. Jon reaches out to touch the little kraken sigil embroidered in spun gold thread that will rest just below his nape when worn.

“What do you think?”

Jon smiles. “Will your sister approve of you presenting me with such finery?” 

“If she does not, she has not seen fit to stop me yet,” Theon dismisses, throwing the cloak around Jon’s shoulders with a dramatic flourish. “Besides, your Braavosi clothes are tattered and hardly warm enough for these islands. Nor the coming winter. I’ve seen you shivering as we walk along the beach.”

“Aye, and you could have just as easily found me something from the merchant in town to wear. You didn’t need to —”

“So reluctant, Jon,” murmurs Theon, fiddling with the edges of the cloak, judging how it falls over Jon’s shoulders. When he’s satisfied, he takes Jon by the elbow and tugs him close. Rests their brows together. “I wanted to. And now that we are in Pyke, it is within my ability. I’m not going to hide you away. You are mine, a retainer in my service, a vassal of House Greyjoy, and I have every right to adorn you as such.”

It works. A warm syrupy feeling unfurls in the pit of Jon’s stomach as Theon slips the straps under Jon’ arms and fastens the ties beneath his throat, lightly brushing his lips against Jon’s neck as he does so. 

“You look quite dashing, I’d say.”

“I’m sure you _would_ say,” quips Jon, heart quickening. “I look ironborn.”

Theon laughs. “No, fear not. A threaded kraken on your cloak does not make you ironborn. You still seem as much a fish out of water as any mainlander.” He kisses behind Jon’s ear. “But you do look as if you belong.”

Jon swallows dryly. The short, dense fur of the pelt brushes the skin of his throat. 

Pressing closer, one of Theon’s hands ventures over Jon’s stomach to rest at the waistband of his breeches. “What’s more, you look as if you belong to me.”

“Do you need reminding?” Jon tries to joke, voice coming out a gasp.

Theon only chuckles. “It is not for me. It is for you. For those who look upon you.” The words tickle against Jon’s skin. He shivers. “Perhaps next I shall braid little seed pearls into your hair.”

Jon has seen some of the women with their hair adorned in such a way. Wives of the lords who attended the feast on Pyke. Hairnets and pins encrusted with small pearls of black, blue, green, purple and grey. All the colours of the sea, captured in these little opalescent gems. Noble women wore them in their hair, on their clothes, in their jewels. It’s depraved that the idea of being bedecked like a wife would thrill him so. But his whole life is a depravity now. Why should he recoil from it?

“Would you like that, Snow? Hmm? A noblewoman’s braid? It is not a secret that you’re baseborn, but you’re a lord’s property, regardless. You should look the part.”

“I’ll not press my luck with your sister’s tolerance of me.”

“She is not here now, is she?” Theon cajoles against his jaw, fingers readily unlacing Jon’s breeches. “I’ll keep your secret.”

Jon’s body shudders in response. “You’re awful —”

“I quite like the look of you, this way,” Theon continues, voice like a purr. “Look like mine enough without the braid or pearls. Perhaps once we set sail from this dismal rock, I’ll have young Wex fix your hair like a true lady. But until then, this is plenty enough.”

An embarrassing squeal falls from Jon’s mouth as Theon shoves the both of them toward the small cot. Part of Jon wants to protest against such a dalliance in the middle of the day, but he cannot bring himself to care. He has been patient long enough.

Walked back against the bed frame, Jon drops down, hitting the straw mattress with a thump. The new cloak pools and billows on the sheets around him. It _is_ warm. With a ravenous grin, Theon follows, sinking to his knees between Jon’s bent legs. He pulls Jon’s erect cock free of his laces. The leather of his gloves is always an odd but not unwelcome sensation. Then, eager and impatient, Theon takes him in his mouth.

The pressure and heat melts Jon in an aborted moan. He throws a hand over his own mouth to keep from crying out. Starting slow, Theon bobs his head over Jon’s cock in long, langious strokes, taking a little more of him each time. Truly, he has gotten so skilled at this, and Jon has never thought himself a jealous man, but the knowledge that no one else alive has ever had this from Theon — that he does it for Jon and Jon alone — ignites an exquisite sort of covetousness.

He always does this like it’s a conquest. Like it’s a fight. But Jon has had enough of fighting.

With a hand, he seizes Theon by the hair, gentle but firm. The slick, heavy warmth of Theon’s mouth on him steadies. 

For a moment, Jon simply endures it. Just allows the sensation to grow and wash over him. He has earned the chance to be a little selfish. 

Then, resting back on his other arm, Jon begins to guide Theon back and forth by the hair. Slowly, at first, allowing Theon to be thorough in his task. And he is, his luscious mouth and tongue sucking and licking and tending. 

Jon sighs happily. It is gratifying to at last have him so docile.

It’s an indulgent ordeal. Theon puts in a voracious performance. Toward the end, he looks up at Jon with an arresting gaze; sea-green eyes piercing and unblinking. Jon’s stomach clenches. He tries to warn Theon with a tug on his hair, but is too late. A coil in his gut releases and Jon comes. With a moan, he falls back upon the bed, on the fur lining of his new cloak, a wave of pleasure rolling over him from the head down.

On his knees, Theon coughs and spits. He goes to Jon’s washbasin to rinse out his mouth, then curls up next to him on the mattress.

They lay quietly together. As Jon floats on the aftershocks, Theon thoughtfully wipes him off and relaces his clothes. With his eyes closed, Jon only feels it when Theon burrows into his side, throwing an arm across his chest and resting his chin on Jon’s shoulder.

“Forgiven?” murmurs Theon.

“Forgiven,” Jon laughs, breathless. “Though, if you make a habit of this, I might have held out for some grander gifts. Maybe a new horse, or some fine armour. See how long I could have played my hand.”

Next to him, Jon can feel Theon scoff against his chest. “The son of Lord Stark plotting to exploit me for gifts and the use of my body. Sulking so that I will suck your cock. How quickly you put your honour down.”

“Well, you drove a hard bargain for it.”

Theon shoves him playfully. “The whores wore off on you in the worst of ways.” 

“It was _you_ that taught me that,” goads Jon, “no whore. Make a man come and he’ll move the heavens and the earth for you. Or something much the same.”

"I taught you that?"

"Well" — Jon blindly runs a hand through Theon's hair — "I'm here aren't I?"

A warm exhale of breath fans against Jon’s jaw. “Yes. You are.”

And so, a few days hence, when he is summoned to meet with Lady Greyjoy in her solar, Jon is not too troubled. Truly, he is a little surprised that he is not more worried for himself. His limited knowledge of Yara Greyjoy tells him that he ought to be wary. She is clever and fearsome, and it is obvious that she is none too amused with Jon’s presence in her holdfast in the last few weeks. Nor her brother’s protection over him.

Still, as Jon is led by two guards over the sickening, rickety rope bridge to the furthest Sea Tower of Pyke, he is not too fearful. If Lady Greyjoy wishes him harm, he has no doubt that it would be _she_ coming to pay _him_ a visit.

Led up the steps of the crooked, narrow Sea Tower, Jon does his best to maintain this thought.

In her solar, Lady Greyjoy is seated at a wide desk of grey, weathered wood. The massive trunk of some mainland tree, salinated and greyed by sea on its journey to the Iron Islands. The working edge has been sanded down to provide a suitable surface, but otherwise the wood is as it was when it emerged from the waters. A seadrift finding where the Lord of Pyke may conduct his affairs.

And Yara Greyjoy fits behind it like a king upon a throne.

She is dressed much the same as the night of their arrival: doeskin trousers and a quilted doublet with her short hair pulled back in a hastey knot. 

At the sight of him, however, Lady Greyjoy cracks a savage grin. “My, what fine clothes my brother has swaddled you in. You truly look the part of the savage ironborn reaver now.”

The sleek, speckled fur of his new sealskin cloak is nearly ostentatious compared to her garb. But Jon does not rise to the barb. Instead he only nods in polite greeting. “My lady. You wished to see me?” 

Lady Greyjoy plucks an open raven scroll from her desk. Displays it to Jon. "This arrived for you today. From your father. Insists that you travel to Winterfell with all haste."

Jon blinks. 

"Are you conspiring with your lord father against the Iron Islands, Snow?"

"No, my lady."

"And why should I believe you?"

"I don't know that you should, my lady, but it is the truth. I have not corresponded with my father in nearly two years."

"He mentions another letter. A recent letter."

Of course he does.

After a moment, Jon reaches beneath his leather doublet and produces the letter he'd received in Braavos. It is weathered and creased, but still legible. "The Winterfell guard pursued us to Braavos but could not find us. My father had them leave copies of this letter throughout the cities. I never replied. He must have learned that I am alive and bids me to give up this foolishness and return to Winterfell."

“And you keep this at the ready, on your person?”

“My lady…” How to say this diplomatically? “Forgive me, but I have been in the habit of keeping it with me since arriving. I did not want to risk it being found among my possessions on the chance it would seem… suspicious.”

Her eyes harden. “Did you think keeping secret letters would _not_ arouse suspicion?”

“There is no conspiracy here, my lady. I did not want to mimic one where none exists and risk setting us at odds.”

“Sit, Snow.”

Jon had not realized he still was standing. Faintly, he takes a seat on the stool before Yara Greyjoy’s desk.

"Who else has written you?" she demands.

"Only my brother Robb. He and Lord Greyjoy were great friends and Robb could not bear the mistreatment of your brother. He aided us in our escape of Winterfell."

"How many letters to him?"

"Six in all, I believe. Three from myself, three from Lord Greyjoy. We only ever received two back. It was not easy to track us down in Braavos." 

"And you would have me not believe that this was all plotting and conspiracy on your part."

"A very poor conspiracy, if it is one. I seem to have just handed you all my secrets."

Lady Greyjoy scans both the letter from Braavos and the raven scroll. She studies Lord Stark’s hand, comparing them, as if she might read his thoughts if she kept at it long enough. "If I do send you back to Winterfell, will your lord father keep you there?"

"My lady, I cannot say."

"My poor brother would be heartbroken. He is quite smitten with you."

"My lady..."

"Spare me. I don't care if you love him, I don't care if you're using him. I don't care if it is both. Your arrangement seems to be toward your mutual benefit, whatever benefit that may be. All that concerns me is that I do not house traitors in my holdfast. And to plot against my brother is to plot against me, Jon Snow."

The way she says his name reminds Jon briefly of Catelyn Stark. 

Lady Greyjoy is quiet as she reads over the letter Jon handed her once more. "What is this woman's name your father promises you?" she demands.

"My mother's. All my life, he forbade from knowing who she was. Forbade me even to ask of her. Now, he offers her name in exchange for my return."

"And do you want to go?"

"Yes, my lady. I very much do."

"It matters that much to you?"

"It does."

“You said you were worthless as a ransom to your lord father. Do you claim now that you lied to me, Jon Snow?” She nearly laughs it. As if the notion of Jon lying could be ludicrous or dangerous.

“Not… a lie, my lady. Honestly, I cannot say what my father means by offering this to me. Perhaps it is to escape paying a ransom. Or perhaps he does not consider me to be your prisoner. If you demanded ransom, I cannot assure that he would pay.”

"What kept you from returning north when he first wrote you then? From Braavos? Why come around the whole world to the Iron Islands?"

"That would have meant abandoning your brother, my lady. For I dare not bring him back to Winterfell. We both knew the only place in all the Seven Kingdoms it was safe to return him was here, to you. For that, I gave up Winterfell."

"Hm. Well, if that be the case, then your father is cleverer than I would have credited him for. Perhaps my own father underestimated his cunning as well, when they battled."

It’s not like that, Jon wants to say. Lord Stark is not devious, not cunning. He would not use this in an attempt to control Jon. That is beneath his valour.

But Jon holds back the denial, for it feels false, even in his own mind. Perhaps it is a ploy on his father’s part, to get Jon to go to Winterfell willingly. No need to send a host to reclaim his wayward son. Dangle the right prize before him, and Jon will bound happily back into the rule of his lord father.

Though just as soon as it comes, Jon banishes the thought from his mind. Whatever else, Lord Stark is an honest man. Jon ought not doubt him. Even when he had confronted his father over their disagreements of justice, laid his father’s hypocrisies at his feet, Lord Stark had been forthright, never denied his actions, even when they repulsed Jon. That stubbornness, that single-minded cleaving to one unbending notion of honour, once that had been something Jon had admired about his father. Something that had always made Jon feel small and inadequate by comparison. Illegitimate in his own fortitude. 

Now, on the other side of that judgement, that stubbornness, Jon finds it nothing but infuriating.

But if there is a chance that Lord Stark will reveal to him his mother’s name, Jon will go. Whatever else, he wants to know.

He and Yara Greyjoy sit in silence while she considers the letter. Sitting back, she puts up her feet, crosses her long legs over her driftwood desk, clearly enjoying watching Jon squirm under her gaze. Outside the tall window behind her, the rippling sea is calm in the midday sun. Gulls wheel over the grey sea.

“If you go,” Lady Greyjoy muses aloud after a moment, “your father might keep you in the North. Not permit you return. And truly, that would solve the problem of you for me, were he to. Whatever else, Lord Stark is not a forgiving man. I doubt you would escape him a second time.”

Jon clenches his jaw. “With all due respect, my lady, my father wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?” she scoffs. “Keep you prisoner?”

Everything in Jon wants to protest it. Lord Stark wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_.

But he could.

Jon clears his throat, maintains the lady’s gaze. “I would go to Winterfell to learn my mother’s name. After that, I have every intention of returning to your brother’s service, and thereby, to the Iron Islands before the start of winter. If it would ease my lady’s worries to send me with her own escort, I welcome it. Though I mean not to burden you with my care or my family’s dealings.”

“And am I to believe that this is the total scope of your ambition? Are you content to be an enemy's whore for the rest of your life?"

A furious blush breaks out on Jon’s face, hot and damning. "I am not your brother's whore, my lady."

"You did not answer my question," Lady Greyjoy fires in return.

She is ruthless. As clever as Theon and twice as impatient. 

Jon takes a moment, composes his thoughts. “I was never meant for much, my lady. Laws of gods and men do not entitle me to honour or nobility. Everything I had as a boy, I owed to my lord father’s generosity. By rights, he was not compelled to feed me, clothe me, name me, raise me, but he did. By his will, I was taught to read and write, histories, strategy, the sword and lance and bow. I imagined that, when I came of age, that perhaps I would join the Night’s Watch with my uncle, or be knighted by my trueborn brother, or even be named to the Kingsguard, if my skill was adequate. I dreamed of leading men, of serving the realm, of earning the honour and the glory that the circumstances of my birth denied me. That was the scope of my ambition.”

“And you would like me to think that my baby brother whispered sweet promises in your ear and changed all that? It seems to me that if you have his favour, you stand to get what you want out of him just as easily as you may have gotten it from your trueborn siblings.”

“Perhaps that is true,” Jon confesses, surprising himself with the ease of the admission. “I have lost the favour of my father’s house, but there are other avenues available to me. Your lord brother and myself have been without martial training for more than a year. Once we resume, mayhaps I might hone my skills and serve as a worthy man-at-arms of your household. Perhaps I shall even captain a ship of my own."

"You think ironborn would follow the likes of you?" she derides, dark brows knit in disbelief.

Jon shrugs. "Perhaps, one day."

"You would not seek to take Winterfell for yourself? You are Lord Stark's son as much as your brothers."

"No, my lady," he replies, "I love my brother too much to ever raise a hand against him."

"Love does not serve powerful men."

"Then perhaps I shall not be a powerful man. I will content myself with being a good man instead. As good as I can be. I do not want war with Winterfell. Ever. I would not seek it unless all of my father's trueborn children were lost." The thought of it chills him, but such things do happen. Men die of simple wounds and chilly nights. Whole families are lost to plague and sickness. Some men are thrown from a horse and leap right back up; others fall from the saddle and break their necks. Lady Stark had done well in this: she had given Lord Stark five strong, healthy children, and had never lost a pregnancy or given a stillbirth, at least as far as Jon knew. He hopes their mother's strength saw his siblings to long and healthy lives.

“No, I think there is more cunning in you yet, Snow,” Lady Yara considers. "You managed to get my brother to bring you halfway around the world, right to the seat of power of one of the Seven Kingdoms. Through… _whatever means_ you used on him.”

Jon looks away. “You credit me with more forethought than I possess, my lady.” He swallows, picks his words carefully. “That was not my aim. In truth, freeing your brother was a hasty and reckless action on my part. After word reached us in Winterfell of your uncle’s rebellion, when I saw that my father intended to obey the king’s command, intended to sentence your brother for treachery that was not of his making… I could not let it happen.”

“And why ever not?”

“It would not have been justice, my lady. My father was… was mistaken to obey the king’s order. I… I know what it is to be held accountable for all the failings of one’s blood. I was given the chance to save another from that fate, and I took it.”

Yara considers that for a moment. “When Lord Stark imprisoned my brother, was he fucking you by then?”

The blush reaches the tips of Jon’s ears. Throat dry, he can only nod.

Lady Greyjoy acknowledges that information with a smile that conveys neither disappointment nor relish. It leaves an oddly empty feeling in Jon’s gut. 

She props an elbow on her armrest and leans her chin in her hand. “Has my brother always prefered men?” she asks curiously.

“No, my lady. There have been… he told me there have been other boys, but I never knew until he confessed it. Women, though, he was well-known to pursue by everyone.”

“And what about you, Snow?”

“Me?”

“Is it men that you prefer?”

“I… I don’t...” Jon stutters, and Lady Greyjoy’s expression turns wicked. He masters himself. “In truth, I do not know, my lady. I find women… pleasant enough, but… there has been no one else for me.”

The confession seems to stun Lady Greyjoy. The cruel smirk flees her face. She kicks her feet off her desk and sits upright, leaning toward Jon. “Are you telling me you’ve never been with anyone but my little brother?”

Jon looks at his knees. “That’s right, my lady. Once, there was a woman, but...” His palms are clammy as he forces himself to admit it. “She… joined... your brother and I. And just the once.”

“Are you’re sure you want to claim to not be my brother’s whore?”

That word still makes Jon bristle. He tamps the little flame of anger kindling in his breast.

Lady Greyjoy makes a face like she is holding back a laugh. Jon feels he might die of the humiliation. “Well then.” She is on the verge of _giggling_. “Whatever else, Snow, I admire your, eh… your thoroughness in admitting that.”

Now he remembers why he wore his hair long as a child: to hide. “I am a guest here by your grace. If nothing else, I owe you my total honesty, my lady.”

Lady Greyjoy does bark with laughter then, short and harsh. “Your Stark blood does show, doesn’t it?”

From her hip, then, she unlashes something. Jon cannot see what. Undoing the leather belt, Lady Greyjoy leans forward and places something on the desk between them, slides it over in front of Jon.

A dagger, it would seem. Jon looks up at her, confused, but she only nods her head, indicating him to take hold of it. He hesitates a moment before picking up the weapon in both hands.

The sheath is strong black leather with a kraken etched shallowly near the trim of the hilt. Gently, Jon coaxes the blade free of its casing. The dagger itself is beautiful, without ornamentation. The hilt is carved from dark-stained nightwood, polished smooth like marble, and the blade is gleaming true steel, finely honed. It looks never used. Newly forged. Jon is not sure what to say. Frowning in confusion, he looks back up at Lady Greyjoy. 

“My lady, what — what is this?”

"You have impressed me today, so this is yours." Lady Greyjoy eyes him contemplatively. “All that I truly know of you is that I should not trust you, Snow. You are the bastard son of the man who killed my people in the rebellion, the man who stole all of my brothers from me, and who turned my mother mad.” 

That doesn’t answer Jon’s question. He looks back down at the dagger in his hands. 

“But,” she adds with a sigh, “now my baby brother has returned to me, and he promises that it is thanks in no small part to you. He has great fondness toward you, despite my best efforts to dissuade him.”

With a wry laugh, Jon ventures, “Aye, it is never an easy task to dissuade Lord Greyjoy from anything, my lady.”

That smirk returns to Lady Greyjoy’s mouth. The familiarity of the expression causes Jon to smile back, despite himself. 

She regards him curiously before admitting at last, “Stubbornness is an inherited trait in our people.”

Jon’s grin widens. Lady Greyjoy’s smile, however, drops.

“Despite what you may think,” she goes on, “I do not want to begin our mutual relationship off with hostility. I have had enough of that on all fronts. Consider this a gesture of goodwill from my family to yours. A gesture of trust.”

Without thinking, Jon stupidly says the first thing that comes to mind. “Should you trust me so soon, Lady Yara?”

Yara laughs at him. “My, you’re not a crafty one at all, are you?” She looks at the papers before her on the desk. “I am deciding to grant you the benefit of my trust for the time being, until either you prove yourself worthy of it or you betray me. It is the best course as I see it, as I cannot be rid of you. At least, not without turning my dear little brother against me. The need for compromise is something that all men have chafed at since the dawn of history. I am a woman, I have an easier go of it. I have been making compromises since the moment I was born. To my father, to my people, to the mainland. It comes naturally now. Other ironborn lords would balk, but not me. My father and his brothers, they refused the need for compromise and now they are dead and our kingdom in ruin. And what my father and my uncle did not understand that I do is that while might can win a man the right to rule, might will not do the ruling. That requires a modicum of cunning. And I am not ruling for my pride or my glory, but because I want my people to survive the winter. Half our women are widowed by three wars in twenty years. There is a whole generation of orphans in my country, angry and poor, that know their fathers died fighting for _nothing_. They know what the folly of highborn pride and fanaticism for the Old Ways have brought them. I’ll not do that to my people again.” 

She folds her arms with a sigh, aggravated. Like Theon, she is not good at concealing her emotions.

“So, I would have my rule marked on more peaceable terms. And that means I must make friends. You are the son of Lord Stark, the Warden of the North, and a bastard though you may be, clearly the man worries a great deal for you if he has tracked you from Braavos to Pyke and sends letter after letter asking for your return. By returning you to him at his request, I stand to make myself a friend.”

Jon does not believe his ears. “You would permit me to go?”

“My brother is not setting foot near Winterfell,” she declares and her eyes darken in a look that brokers no argument. “You said it yourself, so I do not expect that it is a matter for debate. If you go to the castle you go alone. I’ll not stop you. In fact, if I could be rid of you that way, then I encourage you to go. But… I will permit my brother to go as far as Torrehn’s Square, so long as he is heavily guarded. If he agrees, I will send him with a gift of trade goods for the North. Iron, copper. Our mines are plentiful, and ore cannot feed a man in the winter. A further show of goodwill on behalf of my kingdom to yours and to dissuade your father from retribution. And if my brother decides to take you with him on his new ship, well, then I suppose your countrymen should be willing to escort you the rest of the way to Winterfell.”

Jon’s heart soars. He grips his new dagger tight in both hands. “My lady… you have my gratitude for this.”

“I will not lie to you, Jon Snow. I do not care one way or the other for your health or happiness. I am compelled to feed and clothe you as my brother’s guest, but do not mistake this for affection. You are not an enemy, perhaps, but close enough to one. But if I were to willfully send you off unprotected and harm befell you, I doubt my baby brother would ever forgive me.” Her smirk returns then, just briefly. “And he’s the only brother I have left, so I suppose it is in my best interest to keep him acquiescent.”

Jon looks back at the sheathed blade in his hands. He will not say it, but the way Lady Greyjoy regards him is also very similar to the way Theon had when they were young. Instead, he bows his head gratefully.

“Again, you have my thanks, Lady Greyjoy. I shall keep it close.”

“When will I know your answer,” she asks, “on your intentions to go north?”

Jon looks at her. “I intend to go north as soon as I can be ready to go.”

“Really? You have not even asked my brother if he be willing. Will you be swimming to the North, then?”

For a moment, Jon doesn’t understand her meaning. Then, suddenly, he feels sick. It had not occurred to him that Theon would be unwilling to take him. 

“My lady,” Jon stumbles, trying to hide his uncertainty from her, “with your leave, I’ll go straight from here to your brother with this task of yours and ask that he grant me a place upon his ship.”

Lady Greyjoy’s cruel smile returns. “Yes, you may go. Do tell my brother of your father’s word. I’ll speak with him more on the possibility of this _goodwill_ in the coming days. Though I imagine he’ll not be so thrilled as you. Take this with you. We’ve had several copies made already.” She holds out the letter with the broken ash-grey seal.

Jon stands and takes it. “My thanks, Lady Greyjoy.” He bows, slightly. “The Iron Islands are beyond fortunate to be under your rule.”

She scoffs at him. “You have gotten what you want, Snow. You need not flatter me any longer.”

“No flattery, my lady. Every word, I mean. Gifts of trade to the North is a wise strategy. It will mean a great deal to them. I am a northman myself; generosity and courage will go far with both the high lords and the common folk there. We are a people suspicious of those who offer fine words, as they often distract from little action. Deeds such as this will do more toward your favour in the North than a hundred oaths of fealty.”

At that, Lady Greyjoy offers no snide wit. In place of her cruel smirk, something contemplative comes over her hawkish face. She tilts her head up and sits back in her chair, regarding him thoughtfully.

“Perhaps there is more to you than a pretty face and those earnest puppy dog eyes you lob at my brother,” she surmises. “There is some cleverness about you yet, Snow.”

“I assure you, my lady, there is nothing of the sort.”

She snorts. “Well, go now, regardless. The news will surely liven my brother.”

With another sloppy bow, Jon turns and leaves. The guardsmen posted and Lady Greyjoy’s door do not look at him, but Jon feels he must rein himself in from sprinting down the hall of the Sea Tower in front of them. He could skip. He races down the spiral steps. The dizzying rope bridge between towers hardly fazes him on the return. High in the briny wind of the seashore, he feels like he could fly.

He gets turned around twice in the large, high corridors of the Bloody Keep, but soon he finds the door to Theon’s chambers, with guardsmen posted at both ends of the hall. These men watch him openly. Jon fights to keep a smile off his face. Black-and-gold Greyjoy banners had been hung by Theon's door since Jon was here last. 

As Jon stands on his toes and knocks firmly on Theon’s door, he cannot hide his glee any longer. Not even the guardsmen, leering at him from the corners of their pot helms dissuade him. 

When the door creaks open, Theon’s curious expression instantly melts into a grin as he takes in Jon’s demeanor. “Good news, is it?”

“Your — your sister is permitting me to travel to the North,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He feels little more than a child again. Not felt such unbridled joy in a long time. “To Winterfell!” Theon’s face falls. Jon hurries to finish his thought before he says anything. “Father must have learned — must’ve had word that we have arrived in Pyke. He wrote your sister asking for me to return.”

He holds out the raven scroll to Theon, but Theon only stares down at it in Jon’s hand as if it may bite him.

Finally, Theon swallows. His eyes are still on the scroll. “What is this?”

“Read it,” Jon pleads. “It is like the one he sent to Braavos. He promises safe passage for me to Winterfell. He — he promises to reveal to me who my mother is, in exchange for my going.”

Theon’s frown deepens. He takes the scroll from Jon’s hand, but does not open it, staring at it as if waiting for it to speak. “Then news has reached the North already, has it?”

Crestfallen, Jon shrugs. “We have not been secretive about it. I’m sure that news of the lost prince of the Iron Islands returning home has made its way to King’s Landing and beyond, by now. Your sister had said that she’ll allow you to sail with me all the way to Torrhen’s Square. Send a gift of ore and ingots for the North as a gesture of good faith. And… me, I suppose.”

Theon opens the scroll, his expression only souring as he reads the words. “Your father makes no mention of letting you leave Winterfell.”

Jon’s heart plummets. He glances at the guardsmen posted just down the hall. They should not argue in front of his sister’s men. And while Jon had withstood Lady Yara’s distrust, he hadn’t expected Theon to express such immediate contempt for the news. 

“He makes no mention of keeping me prisoner, either,” Jon offers lamely.

Theon rolls his eyes. “Well, it _is_ your father, after all,” he counters snidely. “I suppose if he makes no direct claim of imprisonment, surely he’ll allow you to crawl back into your meagre life as the consort of an unfaithful lord’s denounced son.”

The scroll crumples between their hands as Theon shoves it back at him. 

Struck, Jon only stares. “Theon that’s not…”

“Not what, Jon? Not what I am? Not what _you_ are?”

Jon recoils. “That’s not like my father,” he contends firmly, “and you know it.”

“Is it not?” Theon challenges. “The man who threw me in a cell on the king’s word without another thought. After he had raised me from boyhood alongside his own children. Who was prepared to see me stripped of my lands and titles. Who would have killed me if the king demanded it. Then I must admit, I don’t quite know any longer what your father is like.”

“Stop this,” Jon insists. “You have not even heard me out.”

Theon hums with surly distaste. He glances to his sister’s guardsmen.

“Fine then,” he relents, “come inside, at least.”

Jon doesn’t step inside straight away, holding his father’s crumpled letter to his chest as he watches Theon turn from him and walk into the room to sit at his desk. 

He whistles harshly to Wex, wiping down the furthest window. "You, get out."

Quickly, Wex obliges. Jon steps aside to let him past. 

There is silence between them now, and Theon shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and holds out his hand again. “Let me read the letter again. Does he make mention of when you should set sail?”

Jon looks down at the letter slightly creased in his hands. “He — he asks for as much haste as I deem safe.”

At that, Theon laughs flatly. “Aye,” he allows, “well now, that does sound like your father.”

Crossing the threshold of Theon’s chambers, Jon hands him the letter to look over again. This time, Theon takes it gently, though his sour expression remains as he reads over once again. His eyes look sunken as they read Lord Stark’s script again. He seems exhausted, suddenly.

Hesitant, Jon shuffles in between Theon’s knees, leaning against his lap. “Father… he assured your safety. In his last letter to me. He wouldn’t have hurt you. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Theon huffs. “I read it as many times as you, I’m sure.”

Jon doubts that, but doesn’t say so. 

“He makes no mention of me, now.”

“That does not mean his mind has changed,” Jon assures carefully. “Just…”

Jon is not sure what to say, but Theon is.

“Just that he does not want me there.” 

Theon looks back at him apologetically, as if the insult had been directed at Jon. He notices the new dagger at Jon’s hip and reaches out to inspect it, his thumb dragging over the kraken etched into the leather. “What is this?”

Jon’s hand covers his. “Your sister thought it unsafe to let me travel unarmed. And it seems she means to solicit my goodwill with gifts. So that I will make mention of it to my father, I imagine.”

Eyebrows raised, Theon looks at him through his lashes. “My sister gifted you with a weapon? Gods, she trusts even you more than she does me, it seems.”

His grin is playful, but it feels too honest, and Jon pulls Theon’s hand away from it. “She heavily implied she finds me far too dimwitted to be a threat.”

That, at least, makes Theon laugh. It still startles Jon, how similar a sound it is to Lady Greyjoy’s. 

“Aye, she may have a point,” Theon chuckles. “You cannot lie for your life, after all.”

Theon pulls him forward, onto his lap. Jon goes, happily.

Still, it weighs heavy on his heart. That Theon has remained so mistrustful. Despite it all, Jon had wished that time would have eased Theon’s suspicions. At least of Jon’s family.

Theon hides his face against Jon’s neck, the way he does when he’s embarrassed or angry with himself. It had been foolish, what Theon had said, but Jon cannot forget he said it. 

He’d never known that it had been a worry: that Jon would be the one to stray. To turn away. 

Quiet, muffled against Jon’s skin, Theon asks, "You wouldn’t ever leave me, would you, Jon?"

The question burns like putting a hand to flame, and Jon jerks back from him. "How can you ask me that? After all I've done for you, you would ask me that?"

Theon does not look at him. "You may be tempted. I worry… Your father... if he does not force you to stay, he may compel you to stay. Through promises, gifts. There are many things you want that he has the power to give you. Things that I cannot.”

Jon stands. "My father will not reward my betrayal with titles and love."

After a moment, Theon lets him slide fully from his hold. "You may return to your home, and see them all again, and realize that you have grown tired of being my whore."

Jon flinches. He waits for a moment, for Theon to take back what he’s said, but there’s only silence. Truly, he is just as ironborn as his ruthless sister. 

“That is not what I am.” Jon’s voice comes out cold, dangerous. He hadn’t expected he would need to insist upon it twice. The word is nettles. Nettles that pinch into Jon’s heart and dig in deep. “Theon. I know that is not what I am.”

“Aye,” Theon concedes, fusses with the scroll upon the desk, “for now.”

“No,” Jon snaps, grasping Theon’s shoulder to force his eyes, “not ever. That is not ever what I am. You promised me. Do not try and say different now, after everything we’ve done. Everything _I’ve_ done for you. Given up for you. You would not have stolen away a whore as your only companion. You would not face scorn and mockery in your own lands for a whore. You would not spill the blood of lesser men to protect a whore.”

Now, at least, Theon is looking at him, eyes wide and unblinking.

A knot of fury solidifies in Jon’s throat and swallows them back, shoving Theon again. “I’ll not be spoken to in such a manner. Not by the likes of you. Everyone else may look down on what I've chosen, but not — not you. After you _promised me—_ ”

When Jon spins on his heel to leave, Theon reaches out and grips his arm. “Wait, Jon…”

“Let go of me.”

“Forgive me. You’re right.”

“You _swore to me,_ ” Jon growls, rounding on him. “You — you swore that — that I wasn’t…”

“I did. I did. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean — I didn’t mean it.” He presses Jon’s knuckles to his lips, and lets out a grateful sigh when Jon doesn’t rip his hand away. 

“So many years and it’s still like it was when we were children,” Jon bites. “You still try to push me away. To anger me on purpose.”

“I would rather have you angry.”

“Why?” he snaps. “You think I don’t know your tricks by now? You think you can distract me from my purpose?”

“It’s just — just that I am... fearful.”

At that, Jon does take his hand away. “Of what?”

Theon does not move to stand. Instead he just drops his hands onto his knees. How defeated he looks. 

“After all this time, you still love him more than me,” he mumbles.

“You… you don’t mean that.”

“Do I not?”

“How could you say that? I gave up all of that for you. And still you would say that I don’t love you enough?”

Theon raises his head to look at him. Instead of contempt or defiance, there is only sad understanding in his eyes. “You have always loved your family, Jon Snow. More than you love anything, you’ve loved your family. And what a thing they are to love. The stuff of legends. And you give your whole heart to them. There is nothing I can give you that your family cannot twice over. And I — cannot be not your family.”

“You are so,” Jon argues, voice croaking. 

For a moment, the silence hangs unbroken between them like a presence. Jon feels as if he could reach out and touch it; perhaps push it away. 

“You must trust me, Theon. If no one else, you must at least trust me.”

“Jon —”

“I will not leave you,” Jon interrupts, “not for petty quarrels, not for another, not for the North. Not a title or any foolish standing I might have wished for as a boy. How many times shall I have to prove it to you? There is nothing more for me in Winterfell, and that is why I could not stay. I would have left there eventually, with or without you. And after — after everything, all we have dared and lost, you must trust me by now. So hear me: as long as I am able, I will return to you.”

Theon lets out a defeated, breathless chuckle. “You say it with such surety now, but… when you go there and you see them all again, it will not be so easy to make the choice. If little Arya begs you to stay, will you be able to deny her?”

Jon presses his lips together and nods. “I made a promise to you, Theon,” he repeats. “I intend to honour it.”

If Theon is unconvinced, he does not push it, bowing to give Jon a gentle kiss before he whispers, “Forgive me for my doubt. You are more loyal than any doubt, any weakness of mine, I know. Let’s not dwell on it now, please? Let's not bicker. Stay with me here. I'll make it up to you, yeah? No one will be looking for us this time of day.”

"You think that will fix it?"

"Hasn't it always?"

"You call me disloyal and a whore and now want me in your bed?"

“Forgive me. Must I beg?” Theon goes to his knees.

Jon should know better. He is no longer the boy he was when this started. But Theon so easily plays upon his heart like an instrument only he knows. Tell Jon that he wants him, and Jon's anger will crumble. 

And Jon wants desperately to make Theon understand. Wants, somehow, both to punish him for his mistrust and to assure him. His heart is still pounding from thrill and fury. His throat stings from the shout. But Theon is kissing the palm of his hand, deftly licking at his fingertips, gripping his thighs. It is good. To have him so repentant. 

It was an indulgence they spoiled themselves on in Braavos. The abandon of love and lust in that city was unlike anything either of them had known before or since. Living their lazier days in their boarding house afforded them the freedom to take their fill of each other regardless of the time of day, without fear. They have not felt safe enough for such brazen affection since boarding a ship for the islands.

“Come,” Theon purrs again, rucking at Jon’s clothes, “it’s been too long. Just let me — let me touch you.”

It’s so easy to shed his clothes that Jon starts to do it without thinking. “There are guards just outside. Your sister’s men.”

“Aye, we’ll be quiet, then,” Theon whispers back, getting to his feet. 

“Oh, you’ll be quiet for once, will you?”

Theon gives him a playful shove onto the bed. “Mayhaps if you do not beg for me to shower you with praise the whole time.”

It lightens the weight in Jon’s heart and he pulls Theon over him into a kiss, legs wrapping tight around Theon’s waist. “Perhaps it will be me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, this time. To ease your worries.”

That staggers Theon a little. He stops and looks down at Jon, struck. For a moment Jon worries he may have pushed too far. Theon is proud, even now. But after a beat, he places a brutal kiss to Jon’s mouth. It is not a denial, and from Theon, that is all Jon needs to know.

Then, without warning, Theon slips slickened fingers inside him.

“Ah, _gods..._ ”

There’s a smirk on Theon’s face at that, and he leans close to Jon’s ear. “Oh, you’ll want to be quieter than that, Snow.”

“As long as you hear me.”

Perhaps this is still an argument, still a fight. But Theon is always angriest when afraid, and Jon cannot bear Theon’s doubt, not with this. Not over Jon’s loyalty.

For as confident as Theon was to undress him, he goes slow from there. Eyes rolled back, Jon feels Theon’s teeth graze softly over the inside of his thigh.

So maddening a touch that Jon can only whimper. That is his aim, Jon thinks, to rob him of words rather than be soothed by them. 

It is not uncommon that their arguments end in Theon distracting Jon with sex, but Jon will not allow it this time, taking hold of Theon’s hair and leading him up to his face.

“I’m yours, Theon,” pants Jon in the hot air between them. “Do not falter now. You musn't.”

A shudder goes through Theon then. Jon feels it, the gooseflesh prickle up under his fingers. He lets out a breath, steadying himself as Theon continues to work him open. In truth, Jon no longer needs such thorough attention, but his body responds to the touch as if it were new, and Theon, he knows it. Takes that as a victory.

“Look at me,” Jon rasps, trying to lead Theon back by his jaw, “look at me. You know, don’t you?”

Before Jon can say anything else, Theon pushes into him, and all thought sears from his mind in an abrupt wash of heat and pleasure. He groans, his body straining back against Theon’s cock, head swimming.

“Always yours,” Jon manages, hand latching in Theon’s hair, keeping them close, “since I — since I hardly knew what it — what it meant.” 

The proud little smirk on Theon’s mouth falters, and Jon whimpers as a warm tongue of craving licks up his spine. 

“My first. My only,” he gasps as they rock together. “I could never leave you, Theon.”

Theon ducks his head into the curve of Jon’s neck, and their pace starts to quicken. It is frantic and hungry. They will not last. Neither of them.

“I’ll not leave you. I’ll not.”

“Jon —”

He’s close, and Jon throws his arms around Theon’s back, gripping him tight, nails digging into his skin. It swells inside of him, the potent fiery pleasure of being conquered. Being taken. Belonging to something. 

One of them moans loudly and suddenly the pace turns frenzied. Jon can hardly breathe for the force of it. Theon fucks him hard, fervent, wild. Like it is still an argument. The bed frame creaks beneath them and distantly, Jon knows that the guardsmen outside are overhearing them. He will have to pass by them as he leaves. That thought has a strange effect on him, something defiant and provocative and not entirely unwelcome. They will all be talking about him by nightfall. Throughout the whole castle. The northern bastard is a whore. The prince’s whore. 

"That's it," Jon moans aloud, "go on, do it."

“ _Gods._ ” Theon throws his hand over Jon’s mouth and comes with a growl. He thrusts a final time, hard, deep and then stills. Jon can feel him, can feel Theon’s heartbeat pulsing inside of him as he comes. Jon grips his own cock in his hand and after two or three pulls he comes between their bodies, moaning loudly into the palm over his mouth. He is not afraid. Let them hear.

It’s quick and heady. Like they had both sprinted until they’d fainted. They had barely undressed. 

Neither move. They breathe heavily together, Jon exhaling through his nose against Theon’s hand. Theon rests his brow against Jon’s, kisses the back of his own hand over Jon’s mouth. Then, slowly, he pulls his hand away and kisses Jon properly. Soft and breathless. After a moment, he pulls out and rolls onto his side, and Jon barely feels it, so thorough had he been in his preparations. His own heart slows in his chest and he returns from the edges of bliss like the tide returns to the shore.

Outside the window, it has begun to rain.

Jon looks over on the bed. Theon is looking back at him, panting, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and half-lidded. Jon searches for Theon’s hand and takes it.

“I’d never leave you. On my word, I never will. How would you have me prove it to you any more than I have?”

Frowning, Theon seems to shrink at the question. He looks away for a moment, considering. “I suppose, you will have to prove it by returning.”

“So you will go? You’ll bring me?”

“Of course I will, Jon. I can never deny you anything.”

Jon leans over and kisses him for that.

Pleased, Theon stretches his legs, his ankle popping, and tucks his face against Jon’s neck. It is still daylight outside, but sex always makes Theon drowzy. An hour or two lost would do no harm. Jon strips the rest of his clothing off and absently wipes their collective mess away, feeling downright hedonistic as he does. 

Perhaps it was still an argument, and Jon has won.

If he is to be a whore, it shall be to his advantage and not his detriment.

He settles next to Theon on the bed, strokes softly at Theon’s hair and revels in the tired ache within his own body. When his body is sore afterwards, Jon loves it. 

Looking back with a clear mind, Jon does have some sympathy. Despite his pride, Theon has always harboured a deep inward insecurity. It was what had eventually brought them close as children, despite their bickering and mistrust. And to distract from the terror of his inadequacy, Theon had learned to charm and deflect and rollick. He may have even done it well. 

But being here in the Iron Islands has quickly worn away the wry and disarming shell Theon had put up in the North. 

Now, he is open and tender, like a raw nerve. A little sea creature with its shell pried open, it's tender insides pecked at by birds. And Jon aches for him. His arrogant, prideful Theon, stripped of his titles, his standing, thrown to a pack of mistrustful countrymen who forbid him all he was promised as a boy. 

And then Jon comes to him begging to be sent home, to leave him. Pleading to be taken away as well. Of course Theon had been resentful and cruel. It was unfair of him, but Jon understands. 

He cannot see Theon’s face, tucked close under his chin, but as Jon stares at the gulls wheeling outside the window, he tries, “Theon…”

A soft groan to indicate he’s listening.

“Do not worry,” Jon offers. He runs fingers through Theon hair. “I’ll return to you. No matter what. I swear that I will.”

Silence, for a time. And then Theon brings the hand laced with Jon’s to his lips, and kisses his palm. He doesn’t say anything for so long that Jon thinks he may have fallen asleep.

“Thank you,” Theon mumbles at last.

Jon holds him close, listening to the rain and the lashing sea outside. So long as Theon believes him, it is enough. Whatever else they face, it will be managed. They will speak to Yara of it soon enough.


	6. Theon

It is nightfall by the time they moor below Ten Towers. 

The journey is only a day’s sail, and they had cast off Pyke with the noontide. There had hardly been time to learn the names of the crew before they had sighted the island. And truly there is no need to put in at Ten Towers. They have enough provisions. They could have sailed through the night and been many leagues out into the open bay by the morning, but the stop at Ten Towers is necessary. Theon will not let the opportunity pass him twice.

Ten Towers by night is a striking sight. A sprawling, hulking shape, it sits on the low headland above the sea. Not quite so dizzyingly tall as Pyke, but twice as enormous. In the windows of the towers, lanterns burn, and the whole castle appears to flicker and glitter with candlelight against the night sky and again in the glassy sea. Each tower is different; different heights, different styles, different shapes. The stout Widow’s Tower. The tall, octagonal Book Tower. One tower is black stone, another with a tiled red roof, another topped with an elegant spire of marble. An odd sight anywhere, even odder in the Iron Islands, where everything is old and grey with a thatched roof and covered in lichen. 

The headland is not nearly as high as that of Pyke, and there is a small cove with good moorage beneath the castle. Against the base of the cliffs is the Long Stone Quay. It runs the whole seam where the waves meet the cliff face, hugging the headland as it curves and bends. Cut from the rubble of the adjoining cliff, the Quay is the same grey as the rock of Harlaw, dotted with crates of tarped cargo awaiting shipment. Timber piers and docks branch from it, creating many berths for vessels. Lanterns hang from posts. Groups of men await their arrival on the pier. 

The _Sea Bitch_ furls her sails and drops anchor in the smooth, dark waters of the cove. An archway of grey stone demarcates the wooden piers from the quay’s seawall and lands beyond. At the top of the pointed arch, a dropped keystone is carved with the crossed scythes of House Harlaw.

Beneath the archway, Theon’s uncle and aunt meet him with a small escort of guardsmen. Both greet him pleasantly enough. His Aunt Gwynesse glares unhappily at Jon’s presence but raises no complaint. 

They had not allowed Theon to see her, when he and Jon had arrived from Oldtown the first time. Neither his aunt nor uncle could recognize Theon upon his first return; they had not known him well as a child, seen him only once or twice as a boy. And they would not risk exposing their sister to a false pretender, not when her state is already so frail. Instead his uncle Rodrik had sent his cousin Harras the Knight to escort the claimants to Pyke, so that Theon’s sister could make the pronouncement as to his identity. Theon left Ten Towers without seeing her.

Now, with his identity affirmed before all the lords and captains of the Iron Islands, Theon needs to return to Ten Towers. Needs to see her before he sails away again.

“Are we too late?” Theon asks them, coming up the wooden steps.

“No, she’s still awake,” his aunt ensures, scowling at Jon out of the corner of her eye. “She is well today. Talking.”

His aunt is always answering for her brother, Theon has noticed. Even in their elder years, the rivalry between them still burns hot. 

Theon decides it is safest to appease them both. “Will you permit me to see her, then?”

Aunt Gwynesse holds her tongue then and looks to her brother at her side. 

Uncle Rodrik clasps his hands behind his back, regards Theon with a thoughtful expression. “You may, lad, if that is your wish. She awaits you in the Widow's Tower. Your aunt will be happy to escort you up to her chambers.”

Theon exhales, dizzy. “Thank you, uncle. Aunt Gwynesse. Your hospitality does hearten me, greatly. You’ll not be put out. We’ll not require lodging or food this evening. We will spend the night aboard our ship and sail with the dawn.”

“My sister’s son is always welcome in my hall,” his uncle assures. 

He makes no mention of Jon's welcome.

Gwynesse Harlaw and her few guardsmen lead them up the winding torch-lit steps and through the castle’s stone gate. Two life-sized crossed scythes hang above the huge iron-studded door. They turn and turn down corridors and stairways and Theon is soon lost but his aunt marches on with utter surety. She mutters from time to time, mostly to herself it seems, something about the wolves returning. Yara had told him that their Harlaw aunt had gone a little mad with grief herself after her own husband was killed in their father’s rebelion. Though her agitation seems to come and go in fits and starts. She must have most of her wits, if they trust her to escort him throughout the castle. She still looks the part of a noble lady, her greying hair pinned up in braids, decorative but unfussy. Even the highborn women wear their hair such in the Iron Islands, without ostentation. She wears a slim black gown with silver thread piping and a bodice netted with cloudy pearls. No matter what she has lost, how frayed her mind, she stubbornly retains the dignity of an ironborn noblewoman. 

For that, if nothing else, Theon admires her.

The spiral stairs of the Widow's Tower are narrow, and they must ascend single file. Theon is short of breath by the time they reach the door.

"Away, you two," his aunt shoos her guardsmen, "you'll upset my sister with your armour and your lances. My nephew is no threat to anyone. Off now."

They depart back down the steps with a bow.

Aunt Gwynesse turns to Theon then. Fixes him with that disapproving eye. Quickly becoming a regular sight on the Iron Islands. "These are her chambers, nephew. Understand, she is less collected as the day grows late, so do not ask too much of her at this hour. She becomes confused; you ought leave the bastard outside."

And with that, his aunt turns and departs as well, her grey hair swinging in its braid as she does.

They are alone before a simple door with hinges of black wrought iron. It does not seem strong enough to contain all that lies behind it.

Theon takes a deep breath, steadying himself, his hand on the iron doorknob. "Wait here, Jon."

"Alright."

Inside, his mother is sitting in a chair by the window, wrapped tight in a fur-lined shawl. A single candle in a brass holder burns near her on the windowsill. Bundled in all that fur, she looks so small. A shriveled old woman. Alannys Harlaw looks out over the darkened sea. Her long grey hair is pulled into a simple loose braid trailing down her back. Her once proud face is now lined and harrowed, but she still holds her head high. There is still an elegance and defiance to her as Theon remembers.

He wants to run to her, but his legs only permit him to stumble in slowly. The floorboards creak as he crosses the room. But she does not look up at him. Does not notice him approach. In the dark, the single candle flame jitters and flickers, making the shadows jump around the room. 

On the floor at his mother's feet, Theon kneels. 

Still, she does not see him, not right away. He reaches and takes both her hands in his.

"Mother?" he presses gently in a voice so quiet he sounds like a child. "Mother, it's me."

She blinks, looking at him vacantly. 

"It's me. Mother, it's Theon."

"Theon?" she repeats softly.

"Yes, Mother. Your son. I'm here, see? I've come home."

"Theon…" Alannys looks at his gloved hands in her own. Her papery skin is veined with blue and liver spots. "Theon… Theon… My son is named Theon. They… they took him away."

"No," Theon protests, "no, I'm right here. Mother, it's me. I'm here."

"My boy," she mutters, "oh, my poor boy. My little boy. He was only a child. They wouldn’t let me see him. He cried for me when they took him away. He cried, but they would not let me go to him."

To keep from sobbing, Theon bites his own lip, hard. He drops his head, cannot look at her. His shoulders shake, and his chest is suddenly very cold. Yara had warned him of this. The grief was too much on her, the years were too many. She does not know him anymore. His own mother. He is too late. Too late.

"Is he ever coming home?" his mother asks, brightening. "I've been waiting for him."

Jon is by him then, suddenly. A hand on his shoulder, a steadying weight. Theon had not heard him approach.

His mother inclines her head, looks at the stranger. "Who are you?"

Jon hesitates, "Jon Snow, my lady."

"Snow... Snow…" Her voice is distant, her head tilts like a bird’s, but then she appears to recall something and speaks with more certainty. "You are a northman?"

"I am, my lady."

"My son... My son is in the North. They... They took him away..."

"Indeed, my lady," Jon answers gently, "I know. I have met your son."

Her lined face cheers then. "Oh, have you?"

"Yes. We... we were raised alongside one another, in Winterfell."

Her eyes fill with tears. "Oh, my boy. Tell me, is he well? Do they treat him well in that awful place?"

Theon's shoulders shake as he fights to keep in his sobs. Jon's hand tightens on his shoulder. "They do, my lady. Your son… he has grown into a fine man. A masterful archer and a skilled horseman. He hunts and rides with Lord Stark's trueborn sons. They treat him as a brother. A proud ironborn man he is, fierce and strong and clever. The people admire him throughout the North."

"Will he ever come to see me?"

"He will, my lady. He speaks of you often and longs to be here."

What had Theon done to deserve this? What god had so cursed his birth? What evil had he commited? Theon had only ever done what he was told. Against every indignity, every hardship, he had swallowed his pride and obeyed. This is not fair. He can not bear it. Yielding to Yara, forsaking his claim, renouncing the very hope that had kept him sustained in the North, all that he could withstand. If that is the price of homecoming, he can endure it. 

But this, he can not. He is too late.

Theon covers his mouth with his hand as a pained sob bursts from him. His body racks. On his knees on the floor, Theon weeps. As forsaken as he’s ever been.

And Jon, faithful, attendant Jon, lays a hand on the crown of his head, strokes his hair. Little more than a child again, Theon is, and even with his own mother here, it is Jon who must comfort him. 

Beside him, Jon takes a knee on the floor. Puts his arm around him. Theon struggles to compose himself, but the more he fights, the more he loses the will. He wants to scream, to scream until his lungs burn and his throat bleeds. Wants to rip the hair from his scalp. Wants to drive his fist through glass. Wants to shove Jon away, tell him to go.

His mother’s voice silences his hysteria, “Who are you?”

Looking at him, then back to his mother, Jon answers for him. “My good Lady Alannys,” he entreats, “this is your son, Theon.”

There is silence for a moment, before his mother speaks again with the commanding voice of a highborn woman, “Look at me, boy.”

Theon does. Tears welling his eyes, he raises his head and looks at his mother. She regards him with a fierce scowl. Open suspicion plain on her face. How different from the docile old woman who had sat there just a moment ago. Now he is a child at the knee of a queen.

She unfurls a withered hand from beneath her shawl and takes him by the chin. Turns his face to the side, examining him.

“Theon?” his mother questions, a thawing disbelief to her tone.

He blinks away his tears. They stream down his chin.

“Oh, oh my boy.” A wave of recognition breaks over her, and her stern expression crumbles. “It is you, isn’t it? My son! Theon —”

He surges up and embraces his mother, careful of her frailty. But he holds her close. Puts his face into her greying hair. Against his shoulder, his mother weeps.

“It is you,” she affirms, “my son… my son, you’ve come back home.”

“Forgive me. I was away so long.”

“They brought you back to me.” She throws her arms around his neck and holds him as tight as she is able. “My little boy.”

Theon shuts his eyes and swallows against further tears.

“Let me look at you.” She takes in the look of him with sharper eyes. “My son, my son, you have grown so old. How long has it been?”

“A long time,” he breathes, unbelieving. 

“Gods, you are a man now. Oh, look at you.”

Theon puts his hand over his mother’s where it rests on his cheek. He does not care if Jon sees. He does not care if anyone in the world sees. 

“So long. You must have been so strong to make it back to me after so long. I knew you were strong.”

Strong. He is a man grown, sobbing in his mother’s arms. Theon laughs at himself. “My strength, if that is what you name it, it has never served me any good. It never earned me glory or esteem. I hope only to have made you proud, mother. If you can be proud of your turncloak son.”

Theon manages at last to compose himself, swiping the tears from his face. He leans and kisses his mother on the cheek.

She takes his hands firmly in her own. “My son is no coward, no traitor,” she insists with a steely authority, “he is ironborn. He is as strong as the sea. His blood is salt and iron. You have made your way back to your country from the clutches of the wolves. You are here before me. That is proof enough of your strength. Any who says different is a fool.”

Tears threaten to return, so Theon just smiles instead.

“Yara, she… she had told me you were lost,” his mother goes on, “more than a year now.”

“Not lost,” Theon assures, “in hiding. In Braavos, mostly. Made my way down the Narrow Sea eventually.” 

“You came so far all alone?”

“Not alone, mother.” Theon glances over his shoulder. “I had a shadow.”

Even in his ironborn clothing, Jon still manages to look nothing at all like a man of the Iron Islands.

“You… Snow,” his mother addresses Jon, “who are you to escort my son?”

“Jon Snow, my lady,” replies Jon with his most proper accent, “natural son of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. Companion of your lord son. His friend and ally in Winterfell.”

“Jon has been with me, mother,” Theon placates, “since I arrived in the North. I have known him twelve years, since the last winter. We grew together in Winterfell, alongside Lord Stark’s other children. When the rebellion broke out and the king sought to banish me to the Wall, it was Jon who aided me in escaping. Yara has seen fit to host him as a guest in Pyke.”

“A wolf,” she murmurs, seeming to look faraway, “come to the sea.”

“Do not doubt, mother,” he insists. “Jon is trustworthy. There is not a truer man in all the North. More than once Jon has preserved my life, within Lord Stark’s household and across the Narrow Sea.”

“My lady,” Jon tries, “I am a guest here in your lands, at the mercy of your son and your daughter. They have been fine and gracious hosts to me. My only aim is to serve your children. To that pursuit, I shall do all they ask of me.”

“And now you will be our prisoner, I suppose,” his mother determines. 

“Our guest, mother,” urges Theon, “our friend.”

Deferential, Jon only folds his hands beneath his sealskin cloak.

Bless him, Theon thinks. Jon is so very good at biting his tongue. Theon doesn’t know how he lives with it. How he humbly shoulders the disdain of others. If it were Theon, he would rather die.

“Jon Snow has been at my side through great hardship,” he tells his mother, “and it was with his aid that I have returned home.”

“And now that you’re here, will you be staying home?”

Theon blinks. “I… I have to sail, mother. Yara needs me. But I will always return. And I will come see you often. I shall bring you gifts. Finery and goods from all over the world. The sea itself would not keep me from the Iron Islands.”

Alannys lowers her grey head, appearing to whither before his eyes. “Please, do come see me when you return. Harlaw is only half a day’s sail, and… your brothers have not been to see me in so long…”

“Mother?”

“No, no that's not right... my children are all at Pyke.”

Theon feels Jon’s hand touch his shoulder.

“But my youngest boy, Theon... he… he is in the North. Some awful cold place far from the sea.”

“No, Mother, I am here. I’m right here.”

“Oh… oh yes.” The fog blinks from her eyes. “There you are. I forgot, for a moment. I forget sometimes…”

Theon’s heart clenches. Aunt Gwynnesse had mentioned that his mother's faculties diminished when the hour grew late. Another casualty of his father’s futile vainglorious ambition. Theon should not ask too much of his poor mother. It will soon be past midnight. 

Theon takes his mother's frail hand in both his own. "It grows late, mother. Summer is over now and the winds are more frigid every day. Let us call on your handmaidens and see you to bed."

"No handmaids here. Only thralls."

"All the same," Theon blunders on, "let's see you well tended."

Theon stands and takes his mother by the hand. He lifts the candlestick burning by her windowsill to light their way. Jon, in his readiness, has already made for the door to retrieve attendants for Lady Alannys. 

Once more, Theon is touched by Jon’s attentive nature. Always seeing five steps ahead where Theon trips over his own feet.

Two girl thralls enter and help Lady Alannys to bed. They stoke the fires in the hearth, wrap lidded pots of hot sand under the sheets by her feet, stack cushions to lay upon. His mother brightens at the sight of the girls; it would appear that she is familiar with them, moreso at least, than with Theon. 

It would be improper for Jon to linger in a noblewoman’s bedchamber, and so he dutifully waits out in the corridor. Standing between his mother’s bedchamber and the door, Theon is aware, acutely, horribly, of being pulled apart, being called in two different directions. One side pulling him toward tending for his mother, the other not wanting to abandon Jon in a strange place.

A strange place. This strange motley castle and it’s incongruous architecture. So flamboyant, alien, disorientating. As a child he had never been to Ten Towers, and now this seaside castle—his mother’s own birthplace—feels less like home than any dingy foreign hovel he has dwelt in the last two years.

As the girls help his mother into bed, Theon masters himself, puts aside his ambivalence. The thralls withdraw obientiantly as he bends to place a kiss on his mother’s head where she lays against the cushions. 

“Rest well, mother,” he comforts, “I will come see you again upon my return.”

“Oh, please do,” replies his mother, though she seems far less aware than she had only a moment ago, “your brothers never come to visit me.”

“On my word, then.” Theon kisses the back of her hand once more and places it gently overtop the furs and quilts.

Leaving the Widow’s Tower is like fleeing the scene of a murder. Some horrible sacrilege that is too profane to witness. Theon’s feet cannot carry him down the spiral steps fast enough. 

His aunt and uncle bid him farewell from the gatehouse at the top of the stone steps. There are gifts awaiting him aboard his ship, Uncle Rodrik assures him. Theon barely listens. Descending the cliff steps, the cold night air shocks in his throat. Theon can see the torches lit upon the Long Stone Quay and the deck of the _Sea Bitch_ below. Golden lamplight glitters off the dark sea, reflecting in broken liquescence on the ocean’s surface. Like there is a double world reflected in the haunting black waters of night. It’s as if he were floating above the shore, a gull on the wing.

At the sea wall of the quay, Jon is looking out over the dark bay. His breath clouds on the night air. Bedecked in his new cloak and gloves, he stands like a sentry above the waves, holding a one-man watch atop this tiny wall. The thought makes Theon smile. Jon’s stern face nestled in the speckled fur of his cloak’s mantle recalls the image of some ancient First Man solemnly guarding the realm from enemies unknown.

Jon is always guarding him, ready to defend; as if Theon were a prince and Jon his sworn shield. 

And Theon is selfish, wants only to keep him to himself; were it up to him, he would never let Jon out of his sight. 

After a moment, Jon notices Theon aside him on the quay. 

Quietly, without a word, Theon goes to him, wraps his arms around Jon’s neck. Holds him tight. Buries his face against Jon’s shoulder. After a curious moment, Jon’s arms come up to hold him in return. The night is cold, colder here on the shore than high in the towers, but Jon is so warm. Below, the gentle waves chase seafoam up the shore of low tide, rushing and retreating in an endless rhythmic pursuit. The briney, vegetal scent of tidewrack smothers the apprehension in Theon’s mind, returns him to what matters. The gentle lapping of water on stone. Damp wind and bleached wood and salt. 

He cannot lose Jon to Winterfell. Theon doesn’t know what he’ll do if he does. Go to war, or maybe throw himself into the sea. Either seems likely.

They stand, holding one another, as Theon gathers his courage to say what he must.

“Is she well seen to?” Jon asks as they pull away.

“Yes. Safe in a warm bed.”

“And you?”

“Fine,” Theon insists. “I’m glad that she knew me.”

“So am I.”

Theon clears his throat. Gets ahold of the roiling disquiet stuck under his ribs.

Jon’s cheeks are red from the chill. “Forgive me if I overstepped in there. You were upset, and I thought she might not—”

“No, enough.” Theon licks his lips, sips the cool salt from the air. “Do not humble yourself to me now. That is not what we are.”

“Is it not?” Jon’s jest falls flat.

“You have never concerned yourself with preserving my dignity before,” Theon grouses in their shared manner that only Jon can find good-natured. “Why start now?”

Jon smiles in a wounded way. The waves stir against the quay below them, rocking the ships and the algae-coated cordage. Out on the far peer, a few of the crew are crawling over the deck of the _Sea Bitch_ , taking on cargo sent by Theon’s uncle. Is there not treachery in departing the Iron Islands so soon? Theon refuses the doubt. He is going at the behest of his sister, an envoy of his people. This is nothing like the last time he had left his home.

“I want this for you Jon,” he says at long last, “I do. More than I want to lock you away and have you all to myself — and I surely do — I want for you to know your mother at last. To know her name, to see her, if possible, to meet her.”

Jon says nothing. His smile wavers.

“If she still lives,” continues Theon, “I will bring you to her. No matter how far.”

“We may not find her,” Jon counters.

“Well, I would make the effort.” 

“More like than not, she is a southern peasant of no importance, living in some nameless village, impossible to find.”

“If you asked me to find her, I would make it happen. I would send ravens to every holdfast. I would have every hounddog in the riverlands tracking her down.”

“It would be a waste—”

“Why must you always sink into doubt?” Theon interrupts, exasperated.

“I do not sink into doubt.” 

“You do so. It is written on your stern face clear as the summer sun. We are not even there yet and already you predict the worst.”

“Theon, do not—”

“Are you not gladdened that I am bringing you to the North? It is for you that I make this voyage. If you would rather not bother, I’ll wake the crew and sail us back to Pyke before the dawn. Is that what you’d prefer?” 

“Of course not.”

“Then why not allow yourself some hope?”

“What for?” Jon’s dry tone chastises him. “It is a worse thing to lose hope than to have none at all. You know that just as well as I. You’re the _only_ one who knows it like I do.”

“Jon…” It is as if he is determined to be discouraged. Theon rubs his own temple. “Our whole lives long, you’ve always been eager to assume the worst. Look around you. There is no one here but me. No one is waiting to disparage you for wanting this. No one to sneer and call you a bastard —”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Gods, that is not it.”

“Well, then what?”

Facing the dark, quiet bay, Jon collects himself. 

The sea before them is still like black marble, veined with rippling torchlight. Even with the lanterns burning along the harbour, it is so dark that night sky is alive with the milky foam of starlight. Darker and clearer than either of them have seen in months, the inky sky is strewn with a thousand thousand flickering seed pearl stars. High and shining, shifting in their yearly paths. Here, at the edge of the world, the stars reveal themselves more numerous and fierce than anything. Organized into great constellations, the ironborn travel the wide world by orienting themselves to the night sky. But Theon does not know their names. He cannot find his way by the stars. Here, still he is lost.

Against that wild and humbling vastness, they cleave close to one another. Just the two of them, years on. 

Jon inhales, voicing the hesitance. “If she even is alive, and we are able to find her, by some miracle,” pausing, he gathers himself, “perhaps she might turn me away. Have no want to know me at all. Curse my name. Perhaps I am only a cruel memory to her. A reminder of her despoilment.”

Not for one instant does Theon believe that Lord Stark took a woman against her will. But to a peasant farmgirl, her virtue can be all she has to her name. If Lord Stark fathered Jon on a virgin maid only to abandon her once she produced a child, well, then it would be understandable if she harboured only hate in her heart for the boy and his father.

It would devastate Jon to be unwanted by her.

“If it is not your wish to find her, then of course I’ll not compel you to go,” vows Theon, “but… I know that in your heart you yearn for her to love you and treasure you and I cannot... I wish to make it right for you.”

He tilts his head back, gazing at the dusty smattering of stars overhead.

“You gave up so much for this to happen. For me to be standing here on Harlaw this night. How can I withhold the same from you and call it fair, now that you have the chance to seize it? I can’t stand between you and your chance to find her, Jon.”

“Even when the risks are what they are?”

“Yes. You would never forgive me if I did.”

They both know it is the truth. Jon does not bother to deny it. He has gamely given up so much for Theon’s plight: the favour of his father, his lifelong home of Winterfell, the North entirely. Surrendered it all so that Theon could be restored. 

And Jon Snow is not a petty man. He might have happily lived the rest of his days, never needing Theon to repay him that debt.

But this is what Jon is owed. And not just by Theon.

Theon tucks back a stray lock of Jon’s hair that has escaped its binding. He thinks of his own mother, safely asleep in her tower above them. Grown men are not meant to need their mothers. Grown men are courageous and strong; they ride into battle and slay their foes, they lead and defend the lesser among them. They need not a mother’s comforts. His younger self would have scoffed at the thought.

And yet, it had stirred something tender in Theon’s heart to see his own mother again. Perhaps that is weakness, but Theon cannot bring himself to care. A woman though she may be, she is the strongest of them all.

Jon’s mother would be strong like that. He knows it.

He squeezes Jon’s shoulder through his ironborn layers. A marine breeze flickers the lanterns on the quay, chilling the salt on their lashes.

“I will take you north, Jon Snow,” Theon assures, “as I promised. And afterwards, whatever the news, I will take you wherever you wish to go.”

Jon slides his hand over Theon’s, a cautious smile unfurling on his mouth. Oh, how Theon wants to kiss him. He dare not.

“If it is you with me,” answers Jon, “then I’ll not fret over it.”

“That is a lie,” he smiles, “you will fret as much as you always do.”


	7. Jon

Their first evening from Harlaw, far out on open seas, the crew is celebrating the ship’s maiden voyage. 

It is quite a humble affair when compared to the feast held on dry land, but the crew are as lively as if it were each man’s own wedding night. Those not on duty on deck all cram into the galley to sing and drink. The only food to be had is hardtack and ale, but the men are joyous, and they drink deeply in honour of the baptism of the _Sea Bitch_. A ship’s first voyage is its riskiest, the most unlucky, say the ironborn. When the hull and sails are first be tested by the Drowned God and all the mights of the guileful sea. So the men offer toasts and songs in an effort to appease their ruthless lord.

Not to be scarce on his maiden voyage, Theon joins the men in the galley with Jon, seated on the cramped benches. 

The men of the crew, chosen by Yara Greyjoy, all seem to be capable sailors. Jon is starting to know what those look like. Their faces are tanned, weathered, and lined. A few sport scars or missing fingers. Though their injuries and storied pasts make them appear older than they are. Most, Jon knows, are men of twenty or so years. A few lads younger than that. Those who never possessed the wealth or skill to acquire a ship of their own but are fierce raiders and knowledgeable seafarers all the more.

Except for Dagmer. There is no telling Dagmer’s age. Even Theon does not know. Claims that the old man had a white beard over ten years ago when Theon was still a child, and before even that, word was that Dagmer had spent the last summer reaving with Theon’s young father.

The injury to his face was not from raiding however. It had happened as a child. Dagmer had regaled Jon with the whole tale the night they cast off from Pyke. 

“Brother of mine threw an axe to teach me the finger dance,” he had informed Jon a few drinks back, then hooted, “I wasn’t very good!” The whole galley had rocked with laughter at that. 

Everyone had been certain that he would not survive the wound, but young Dagmer had. And gone on to be a fearsome raider and captain besides, winning the favour of the Greyjoy family and many riches for himself, despite his common birth. He captains a longship himself, the mighty _Foamdrinker_ , having fought in both the Greyjoy rebellions and Robert’s Rebellion as well. Usually, his callused hands are bedecked with gaudy rings and bangles: prizes from his days of raiding. But now, aboard this ship not as a captain, he has removed them.

No one has said, but it has become apparent to Jon that for another captain to offer his service aboard Theon’s ship is extraordinary. Perhaps it would even be demeaning, were it anyone but Dagmer Cleftjaw. The old raider drinks at Theon’s side on the benches, sings old reaving songs, and if any of the other crewmen find it distasteful, they have sense enough to keep it to themselves.

What the ship lacks in fine food it more than makes up in plentiful ale. The little galley is frantic with noise and heat under its low ceiling. The crew is swapping tales of reaving and great deeds of the war, and old Dagmer has more than all of them combined. A veteran of three wars, he has been roaring his most animated, exaggerated tales, his lisp growing more and more pronounced with each horn of ale. 

Jon listens to them all, rapt. He does not speak much, but after no small indulgence in ale himself, he is soaring. Aboard Theon’s own ship, like he always promised, ferrying him to Winterfell. Jon had never dared to hope for this much.

The ironborn crew pays him little mind, Dagmer included. Whether it is due to his being a northman, or they have heard rumours of his attachment to their captain, or just a general mistrust of outsiders, Jon does not know.

Late into the night, the drink goes to Theon’s head as well, and when, under the trestle table, he skates his long fingers skate over the inside of Jon’s thigh.

Theon turns his head to Jon's ear, “I want you.” Dazed, Jon dare not look if anyone notices how close they are. “Go wait for me in the captain’s cabin, would you?” His hand latches hard onto the hem of Jon’s doublet and gives it a tug. “Take all this off and ready yourself for me.”

Swallowing, Jon hops up from the bench. No one but Theon spares him a glance as he departs the galley. With everyone either carousing or manning the ship, the low aisle to the captain’s cabin is deserted. 

Still, their little cabin is a quiet refuge. A place where only they are welcome. Outside the hull, the sea swells, heaving the deck softly beneath Jon’s feet. With some drink in him, the rocking waves are strongly intensified. He stumbles a little. It makes him giggle. Teetering to the bunk, he strips his fine new clothes, leaving them in a heap on the planks. Pulling his tunic over his head, Jon gets his arms stuck momentarily and lets out a drunken little squeal that embarrasses him even alone in the cabin.

Though the galley had been heaving with bodies, warm and bright, the chilly sea air is sharp and prominent in the cabin. A ship at night on the open sea is a frigid spot. Fires below deck are impossible. Only warm blankets and dry clothes. Undressed, the cool air prickles against his naked skin flush with drink. A spike of anticipation shoots through him.

_“I want you.”_

All these years later, it's still enough to stir him to want. 

Jon could hear Theon say the words a thousand times, but each always feels like the first time, their bodies entwined together among the red leaves scattered about the forest floor. Even when they had been young and foolish, throwing barbs at one another in front of the people of Winterfell, Theon has always made Jon feel wanted. And that is enough.

It’s like a secret just for Jon, how adoring Theon can be, how gentle his heart. For the rest of the world he has a contemptuous laugh and a wry smile, but for Jon he has kind gestures and a longing touch. 

There is power in that for Jon, moreso now than ever. Theon is a prince, son of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, captain of a longship. And still, he belongs wholly to Jon.

How long might Jon be alone in the cabin? The ironborn are a rauctious people. They will not go quietly, when there is drink and glory to be had. 

Twisting naked in Theon’s bunk, Jon masters his patience.

_“I want you.”_

Kicking upright, Jon retrieves their jar of salve. Hard as he is, he has been given other instruction. And he does love when Theon can take him without pause. The heat and the rush of racing unimpeded. He has grown spoiled. 

Sliding two fingers inside himself, Jon can feel a tug behind his navel. It is not usually so quick, anymore, that Jon’s body churns with want. No longer an eager boy, he appreciates some art to his lovemaking nowadays. He has needed this.

He moans aloud in the quiet little cabin. No need to fret about being overheard.

And truly, there is no need to fantasize, but in the privacy of Theon’s cabin, Jon allows himself the indulgence. The crowded ship has made Jon impatient, and lets himself dare imagine that he has not left the galley at all. That Theon had wanted him too fearsomely to wait, stripped him of his clothes and claimed him over the trestle table in front of all his men.

“Oh gods…”

Shocked by his own desires, his body jerks against a bolt of want, gasping. His eyes slide shut, and Jon has to pull his hand away to reign his heaving breath. 

It would mean the end of him here. Before those men out there, he would be disgraced utterly. Among these people it would be known unmistakably: Ned Stark’s bastard is Greyjoy’s whore. He spreads his legs for his master without care for who sees. He is not a man, not even a lover, only a slut. 

Yet perversely, even that mortification is not enough to turn him from the thought.

How can he enjoy the thought of something so horrible? Be aroused by his own disgrace? That is mad.

He wishes Theon would hurry, that he was already here, watching.

_“I want you.”_

Breathing hard, Jon presses the soles of his feet into the quilts and tilts his hips. Light sparks behind his eyes at the change in angle. His free hand grapples for purchase, slamming against the wall by his head. 

The door bursts open with a thud, and Jon’s heart surges into his throat. 

Madly, he grabs for the quilt to cover himself, but before he can Theon has stumbled into the cramped cabin and taken Jon’s wrist in his grip.

“There you are. Look at you. Such an indecent thing, aren’t you?” Theon purrs drunkenly as he leads Jon off the bunk to stand. Looks him up and down. His eyes are glazed and hungry, cheeks pink as he sits back onto the disheveled bunk himself. His fingers brush over Jon’s hard cock just enough to make him shiver. “Could you not be patient?”

Jon’s voice comes out a low groan, “You — you told me to be ready. And were taking too long.”

“Mm,” Theon pulls Jon close. His skin is so warm, a shiver pulls through Jon just from the feel of Theon's knuckles trailing down his chest, toy with the dark hair growing there. “Well, seems that I’m the captain, after all. My word is needed for every action, ‘round here. How would it seem if I crept away from my crew the very night of our maiden voyage.”

"You shouldn't be so blatant in front of them."

"Worried what those brutes might say?"

"I'd retain as much of my dignity as I may. You are captain, yes, but I'd rather not be your known whore so soon."

"They're all so drunk I could have been fondling a mermaid and they'd not have noticed."

Jon does not care, not with how Theon’s knuckles are tracing that hair just below his navel. 

“Gods, look at you. I could never keep my hands off your for long, Jon Snow,” huffs Theon, his other hand stroking soft over Jon’s stubbled cheek. “Tell me what you want from me, would you? I love when — when you beg for me.”

He needs it too much to be ashamed. “You know what I want. Fuck me.” Jon’s body moves without permission, folding naked onto Theon’s lap. “I want you to fuck me. It’s been ages.”

Theon yanks him close by the hips, pulling Jon onto his lap. “And how would you like it, sweetling? Or are you not picky on the hows of the matter? Just so long as you get my cock, in the end."

“Up — up this way,” Jon groans, grinding in Theon’s lap. “Like it, when I ride you.”

Theon’s body tenses beneath him, and he mutters, “Aye, you have always liked to watch. Like to see everything.”

“ _Yes._ I do.”

“Aye, alright then.” Theon cups Jon’s cheek, letting his thumb rest against Jon’s mouth as he uses his free hand to shuffle his own breeches down his hips. That makes something quicken in Jon's chest. Whenever one of them stays dressed, somehow, it feels seedy and lewd. And that only makes Jon want it more; the idea that Theon wouldn't even bother to undress for him. Use him hasty and careless. 

Sometimes, Jon does not want care.

"Don’t you look away from me," Theon huffs and he struggles with his clothes.

"I won't."

Once Theon’s cock is free, he leans over and gropes hastily at the drawer beneath the bunk for the open jar of salve to slick himself quickly. 

“Say it again," Jon moans, "that you want me. Say it, please.”

Theon lets out a soft groan in response, seizing Jon’s hips in roughly either hand and guiding him down.

“Of course I want you,” he breathes against Jon’s neck, “can’t — ever get enough of you. Watching you in the galley with them all, and all I could think of was having you. You were — _made_ for me, Snow.”

Theon’s cock breaches him in a slow, smooth push. The low, luscious burn of it roils in Jon’s gut. He presses his brow to Theon’s, eyes fluttering closed. For a moment he lets his body be, orientating his drunken mind to be aware of his limbs, his muscles, his heartbeat, his breath. The drink amplifies the feel of it, it always does, rendering vivid sensations of touch, of heat, of pressure into a collective mass. Rocking his hips to adjust himself, Jon begins pushing himself up on his knees to slide himself back down again. His head falls back and he sighs contentedly. Stretching his arms overhead, Jon grips the low wooden beam of their cabin’s ceiling for leverage, pushing back with each thrust. 

It is always so good. 

“That’s it, let me look at you. You’re mine, Jon. Mine.” Theon starts to move his hips but Jon sets the pace, fucking himself rough on Theon’s cock. “On this ship, you belong only to me. I’ll have you by day and night now, any time I see fit. Do you hear me?”

Groaning, Jon works himself up and down until his knees and thighs start to burn. The bunk creaks to their rhythm beneath them. Theon’s hand grip Jon’s hair, holds his head still.

“Say it,” Theon pants, “let me hear you, Snow. Now.”

“Whenever… whenever you see fit,” Jon purrs as he rides. 

Reaching behind his head, Theon releases Jon’s tied hair and leans back against the wall of the cabin, taking in the full sight of him, eyes roving over his body like a starving animal. Long, strong fingers grip the muscles of Jon's low back, a firm direction. 

“Go slow, Jon. Make — make it last. Want to see you. You do put on... such a show.” 

At that, Jon presses both hands to the overhead beam as he turns the pace torturous and languid. “Seems that I’m not — the — the only one who likes to watch.”

Theon’s proud little grin does not falter. “No. You aren't.” 

Unable to help himself, Jon bows forward to kiss him, greedy and hard. Keening, Theon thrusts up, nails sinking into the small of Jon’s back. When they break apart, Jon is panting.

The air is so close between them, dense like a fog, slick skin and gripping fingers. The candlelight is dim, but Jon can see Theon through feel alone. His wide, molton eyes, his taunting smile. The way blush burns down to his chest beneath his clothes. How he squirms beneath Jon’s straddling legs. 

“Please...” His voice comes out soft, a quiet little whine. Always when he sounds his most unmanly.

“What do you want, Snow? My sweet little wolf. Tell me.”

“Touch me. Pl — please…” He’s so hard. Needs the relief.

Theon makes a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat. “Touch you? Like this?” 

He only skates his hand up Jon’s ribs. It is meant to toy with him, but any touch at all is thrilling now, and Jon’s breath shivers, eyes fluttering shut.

“Harder,” begs Jon, driving himself deeper in Theon’s lap.

“Patience,” Theon scolds.

“You’ve already made me wait.”

“And I shall a bit longer.”

In despair, Jon forces himself faster down on Theon’s lap, hoping to break his resolve. He lets go of the beam overhead, runs his own hands down his body, but does not touch his cock. Even that meagre touch is mercy.

“Ah-ah, don’t look away, now. You promised me.” 

Theon’s voice is bright, easy to follow. Jon’s vision swims as he tries to focus on Theon’s face. 

“That’s it,” Theon purrs, hand cupping Jon’s face. “There you — are.”

Opening his mouth, Jon leads Theon’s thumb past his lips, satisfied by the gentle weight on his tongue as Theon’s hips start to quicken underneath him. 

“I’ll have you that way next,” Theon groans, hoisting himself upright by the ceiling beam. “And then bent over the desk. Use you over and over until every hole in you has gone raw. Keep you naked and well used in this bed until you've forgotten the need for clothing.”

Jon's hands both grasp Theon’s wrist, holding him steady as he sucks at Theon’s thumb in his mouth. Even untouched, Jon’s going to come.

“Would you like that?” Theon huffs. “I could fuck you again, right after. I’ll still be hard, I can feel it. Feel what you do to me? Fuck your sweet little mouth the — the moment I’m done. You could not refuse me. It’s — my right. To have — have my salt wife as I — like.”

Keening, Jon grinds back against Theon’s cock, driving him deeper, faster. His knees are throbbing. He’s so hard it hurts. With his vision going blurred at the edges Jon can no longer meet Theon’s eyes, but Theon no longer protests. With a broken moan, Jon comes untouched over Theon’s clothes. 

He hears Theon’s voice again, breathless. “Yes. That’s it, Jon. What a good — boy you are.”

Another two or three thrusts and Theon stiffens, grunts, and comes deep inside of him. Every nerve in Jon’s body turns soft and gauzy. As if he is submerged in a warm pool, sound and touch seem muffled, even as Theon pulls out of him. 

“Good boy, Jon,” Theon whispers again, voice still spent against his ear, “my sweet little wolf.”

Distantly, Jon feels tender kisses peppered over his face as he comes back to himself, warm, shivering fingers tilting his chin back, cupping his jaw. Theon is muttering, voice slurred and pleased as he pushes Jon down onto the blankets. 

As Theon dotes on him, Jon starts to doze, satisfied, warm, and limp in their bed. Still a little drunk, perfectly content, Jon thinks for just a moment that he’ll never want for anything again. He cannot recall ever being so sated.

From inside the cabin, there is a soft thump. A little percussive drum. Not like the sharp creaks of straining planks. A different sort of faint thud. Jolting, Jon looks around, terror pouring cold down the back of his neck. 

There is nothing to be seen. Only the desk and stools. Their sea chest. His clothes scattered on the floor.

“Wh — where’s Wex?” Jon croaks.

For just a moment, Theon pales, but as suddenly as the colour left his face, he laughs a little madly. “Uh… well, I suppose he would be in his bunk at this hour,” he admits, eyes finding the plank door that separates his squire’s small hammock cupboard from Theon’s cabin.

There is no further sound from behind the door. Jon’s chest goes cold. The realization grows up from his gut into his throat, so inflamed by embarrassment that he may die, but Theon only yawns and stretches his arms above his head. 

“He heard us,” Jon flushes, “gods, he — he heard _me._ ”

“Oh?” Theon’s eyes light up at that, “were you loud as well as impatient?”

Jon doesn’t answer, wishing he could melt into the quilts and disappear. 

Theon only seems encouraged by his silence, kissing down his neck. “You hardly make a sound most of the time, when we’re fucking. Is it different, when you’re doing it yourself?”

Jon pushes Theon. “I’m not silent.”

Chuckling, Theon runs his fingers along the inside of Jon’s thigh, making him shiver. “Certainly not just now, no. Were you an impatient little slut? Did you moan and keen for me, alone in my cabin?”

Jon covers his face. “I _wasn’t_ alone.”

“Aye, well. Wex won’t have anything to say about it.”

“ _Theon!_ ” 

When Theon laughs, it bursts from him, unburdened and warm. He rolls over onto Jon and pulls Jon’s hand away from his face. “Does this mean I cannot have you again? You did promise so sweetly.”

Face burning, Jon squirms underneath him to hide again. “Gods, more? _Now?_ ”

“And why not? I am a young man with a young man's appetites. When I'm old and grey we can sit around and talk."

“Don’t be a fool.”

“Mm,” Theon chuckles, nosing gently at the curls behind Jon’s ear. “Such shrewd advice now that I’ve made you come all over my clothes. You’d had no such shame when pulling yourself off in my cabin, had you?”

A chill tickles over Jon’s neck, and Theon’s fingers roll curiously over his ribs. Resolute, Jon says nothing, and Theon nips playfully at his throat. His short beard scratches Jon’s chin. 

“If you do not wish to be heard, there won’t be much sound you can make with your pretty little mouth around my cock, is there?” Theon’s hand wraps around Jon’s flaccid cock, and Jon cannot hold in the helpless whine in his chest as the overwhelming sensation turns his bones to water once again. “Though I must say, I think the idea of being overheard may thrill you.”

Though Jon shakes his head to deny it, he lets Theon take his hand and leads it between them, wrapping his fingers around Theon’s cock. As promised, he’s still hard. 

“Part of you has always loved an audience,” Theon tells him breathlessly. “Having the gods watch us, or Ros. Letting others overhear us in Braavos, or even the guards outside my chambers on Pyke. It is unwise to be so blatant, you say, but then you — you like it so much more that way, don’t you?”

“I — Theon…”

“Ah, not so loud.” He grins. “Wex may hear you, after all.”

A breathless laugh releases from Jon’s chest. “You — utter wretch.”

“A wretch now, am I?” Theon purrs. “Just moments ago you were wax melting in my hands.”

Theon’s strokes are gentle, ghosting, but the overstimulation forces a broken little whimper of distress from Jon.

“I did not come all this way to have to hide again,” Theon growls. “Not again. I am captain of this ship, in my own cabin, and I’ll fuck you how I like.”

Jon cannot help but gasp at that. His skin is still burning and raw at the touch as Theon’s fingers trace over him. It runs along the razor edge of too much, but to have him stop would leave him just as helpless. A soft kiss presses against Jon’s ear.

“I want you on your knees, Jon,” Theon breathes, “let — let me have you again. You feel… gods, you feel so good. So warm.”

Earlier inhibitions forgotten, Jon nods. Maybe Theon is not wrong. Maybe Jon has always wanted an audience. Wanted others to know. To throw it in their face. To not be able to deny it. That Theon chose him. Could have anyone he wanted, but he chose Jon. All his life, they told Jon that he was worth nothing, a scandal, a disgrace. If only they could all see him now. Lord Theon Greyjoy chose him. 

“Yes,” Jon wines, nodding again, “of course, my lord. Have me — have me any way you see fit.”

Groaning, Theon shoves Jon hard, sending him sprawling over the floor of the cabin with a loud _thump._ He scrambles to his hands and knees, and Theon has a handful of Jon’s hair in one hand and his own cock in the other.

He is still hard, hard enough it’s as if he’d not come at all. Jon is slightly jealous.

“Tend to me, then, Jon. As — as a good salt wife would.”

Jon obeys. He obeys eagerly, as if he’d not just come himself moments ago. He opens his mouth and slides over Theon’s cock with a soft whimper. It feels filthy, having Theon’s cock in his mouth after it has been inside him, but it is frenzied, base, and desperate. Jon doesn’t mind being filthy. It’s in his blood. And Theon needs him. More than anyone else in the world, Theon needs Jon now. Needs him like air in his lungs.

It’s always a curious feeling, taking Theon in his mouth. For his whole life, Jon has heard men talk as if there is no act more degrading. Nothing more abjectly low and depraved. Only the filthiest whores perform it. But Jon knows they are fools. Never does he feel more powerful than when he kneels between Theon’s legs and works him with his mouth. All the ironborn confidence and pride dissolves on Jon’s tongue and Theon is utterly under his sway. 

Men think power is only one thing. Jon has learned better.

“Gods, such a pretty thing,” says Theon, “always such — such a pretty thing, you were.”

Encouraged, Jon takes hold of the open edges of Theon’s breeches, levering himself forward and back.

“Perfect. You’re perfect. Oh, Jon, look — look at me.” 

The stretch burns his jaw. A soothing sort of ache. Whining again, Jon drags his tongue slick along the underside of Theon’s cock. He wants only to taste Theon on his tongue. Wants to pull release after release from him until he can no longer speak. Until he does not know his own name. The thought sends a shiver down Jon’s spine, and Theon’s body jerks underneath him, a winded gasp ripping from his chest.

One of Theon’s hands seizes in Jon’s hair, the other fists in his quilts. He pulls Jon’s head over his cock. He cannot help himself, hips starting to sway forward and back, slack and lazy as a wave upon the shore. He moans, and Jon can feel his thighs trembling against his ears. He’s close again, so close — too close to stop himself.

“Jon,” Theon sighs, body tense, his head thrown back in bliss, “oh, Jon — _Jon…_ I… I’m…” 

And with a heaving shudder, Theon comes. Not that much, not so soon afterwards, but still, Jon pulls away to swallow, salty and thick.

Theon drops back onto the bunk, head knocking hard against the bulkhead as he fails to catch himself. He grumbles and rubs his head. Chuckling, Jon reaches for the washbase to rinse his mouth and wipe himself clean. After he crawls back up onto the bunk, panting softly. Slumped against the bulkhead, Theon looks up at him with glassy eyes and a dazed sort of smile, and Jon licks his lips before bowing to kiss him.

“Will it only — be two on this night, my prince?” Jon says with a false sort of pout belied by the hoarseness in his voice. “What — what happened to going all night? You did promise… so sweetly.”

With a dizzy laugh, Theon clutches Jon’s shoulder and pulls him close, until their chests touch and they share the same breath.

“Brat,” Theon wheezes, kissing him before he can retort.

Throwing a blanket over himself, Jon tucks into Theon’s side. For all the chill of the sea air, it is warm in their bed, their bodies radiating the heat of lovemaking. Jon toys with the short hair on Theon’s chest, lingering in that warmth. 

Exhausted, drunk, the two of them are asleep before they even think to attend to the state of their decency. 

Upon the first moment of waking, Jon recalls Wex, who wakes them standing in the cabin with a tray of plated food, not looking up from the dishes.

“Gods —!” Jon bolts up and snatches the edge of the quilt to cover himself. “Oh gods, Wex.” He shoves Theon’s shoulder. “Theon. _Theon,_ get up. It’s morning.”

“Brilliant,” Theon mumbles, only half awake as he tries to yank the covers back.

Young Wex stands with his shoulders up to his ears as he clears last evening’s cups from the table. Jon's discarded clothes have been picked up and neatly folded. A hot coal burns like a living thing in Jon’s stomach. Laying beside him, Theon still doggedly tugs at the quilt. When Jon refuses to relent his hold after several tugs, Theon finally lifts his head and realizes their visitor.

“Oh,” he says with a wholly unruffled tone, “Wex.”

Wex’s back goes ramrod straight before he turns to face his captain, eyes pointed resolutely at his own boots. Jon draws his knees to his chin, dropping his face into his hands. 

Theon only chuckles, unbothered.

“Now, Snow, how old were you when you first saw a stable boy and a kitchen maid rutting behind the Broken Tower in Winterfell? I’m sure Wex here has seen his share of cocks before now.”

“ _Theon!_ ” Jon’s hands muffle the shout.

“Hope you did manage some sleep, Wex,” Theon interjects, stretching. His brazenness makes Jon yelp. “Take all these away. And bring the maps up to Dagmer on deck. I won’t need any seeing to this morning. Jon here shall help to dress me.”

Had the boy not been here, Jon would have smacked him for that.

With that, Wex flees with his armful of last night’s dishes. 

When the cabin door bolts shut, Jon lifts his head from his hands.

“Does it bring you pleasure to humiliate me before your crew?”

“The pleasure was in seeing the boy’s face,” Theon cackles. “Looked like he’d caught his own mother in bed with four men.” 

“Theon, _gods have mercy,_ ” Jon swears miserably, “must you insist on being so immodest?”

“Modesty? I am ironborn. And Wex is ironborn. A Botley’s baseborn son, all the more. The boy has surely seen far worse than two men abed.”

“He’s only a boy,” Jon huffs as Theon crawls over him to get out of bed and dress.

“Aye, don’t let his silence fool you,” Theon smirks as he steps into his breeches. “He’s not as innocent as you were at his age. Certainly not concerned over _modesty_. Yara assures me the boy is almost as good with a dagger as she is.”

“I wasn’t _innocent,_ ” contends Jon, but Theon only chuckles and kisses his forehead.

“Relax, would you? It’s not as if he’ll tell anyone.”

“But he knows, now. Knows that I… and you say that the ironborn judge a man severely when he… that it is shameful and degrading when a man lets himself be... taken like a woman.”

“I see no woman here in my bed.”

“Do not be clever about it.”

“You often tell me that I am not clever at all.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but the fear stays. “Will he not… find me revolting, now?”

“So worried about what my bastard squire thinks of you?” Theon chuckles. “It is not up to him. His thoughts, if he does have any, are not our concern. Wex will serve you with dignity because you are my guest and I say he must. I’ll skin his hide for anything less. And he knows it.”

Explained that way, Jon's alarm abates somewhat. Still carrying the fears of a scorned child, worried what a bastard of four-and-ten will whisper about him, could he whisper at all.

A man grown, traveled the world, and still Jon is so concerned about what men will think of him.

He sighs, chastened. “Men will say what they say. They always have. Men have been whispering scorn about me my whole life. But I’d not forgive myself if having me here cost you anything in the eyes of your people.”

“To my people, I am doing as the ironborn have always done,” assures Theon as he pulls a grey tunic over his head, “taking the spoils of the greenland for my own pleasure.”

Jon rolls his eyes.

“Aye, scoff all you wish,” Theon contends, “but you do so love me to talk that way while I’m fucking you.”

Jon scoffs once more, but feels his face go pink, and smacks Theon playfully on the arm. 

Theon cups Jon’s chin in his fingers, holding his head still. “Now, help to dress me, would you? After causing such a scene before my squire like that, you’ve given me no option.”

Jon shoves him a little harder with a playful refusal.

Theon feigns an aghast expression. “Defying an order from your captain? Well, what an insolent salt wife a bit of freedom has turned you into.”

“Insolent, am I?” Jon answers, reaching to cup the back of Theon’s skull. “Perhaps, then, my _lord and master_ must further instruct me on my duties, if he is not so busy as to have forgotten me.”

Grinning, Theon nips at Jon’s throat. “Aye, and in time I shall.”

There is something previously unnoticed in Theon’s eye: a faint agitation or keenness. Jon knows the look. Knows that, to his lover, worry is a restless wild animal that paces its pen. A building storm. Theon never gives voice to his doubts, as if to speak of them would make them real. A juvenile sort of thinking that he has never outgrown. But Jon has grown accustom to noticing it in him. Grown more accustom still to soothing that fledgling insecurity before it slips its bonds. 

After a while, Theon bows and presses a kiss on the crown of his head. “Look at me, Jon.”

Perhaps he means to say more. But, defying his nature for once, Theon keeps the thought behind his teeth. That same caginess lingers in his eye. But Jon does not ask. Not when Theon is in such good humour after departing Ten Towers. He is leaving his beloved stoney islands behind so soon after returning on only Jon’s whim. That trust, Jon will not press.

He does help Theon dress in the end. Fetches leggings and waxed canvas trousers, helps Theon into his fine new armour: a black brass-studded leather brigandine over the storm-grey tunic beneath. It is a fine garment, hanging to just below the knee, the brass studs and black leather recalling the colours House Greyjoy. There are a set of matching vambraces that Jon does not fetch. Aboard the ship, away from war when there was sailing to be done, the ironborn wore very little armour, especially upon their arms where it could so quickly become entangled in the rigging. 

He halts for a moment in righting Theon’s clothes, rubs his arms and shoulders, knowing that Theon carries his agitation in his body. Worry and strain live in his muscles like a bruise. 

Words are needless between them, nowadays. Indeed, they’re more a nuisance when Theon is troubled like this. Deeds and gestures do more to reassure him than a hundred coaxed assurances of devotion.

After Theon has gone up on deck, Jon washes and dresses. He rinses his mouth and attends to hygiene. He scoops the clothes that young Wex had folded, shakes them out. Even from a single night on the floor they are salt-crusted and cold. Serves him right, Jon supposes. He laces up his doublet of ray leather over his warm woolen tunic.

He shaves over the washbasin. It’s been nearly a week, and his beard grows in quicker and darker these days. For some time Jon has debated whether to let it grow in like a true northmen. Like the Umbers and Wulls, stock more northerly than even that of Winterfell. But it still comes in boyish and patchy at times, and Jon decides against it. Worse than a boy being green is a boy trying to pass as a man.

Once done, he cleans the razor on the leather strap and runs a hand over his jaw. Stubble prickles his fingertips, but at least it’s all even. There is no mirror in which to check.

He ventures to the galley for a quick meal, retrieving a wedge of cheese, honey, and some still-soft bread taken on at Ten Towers. Otherwise he lingers in the cabin, a little sore from last night. On the shelf are a few fine leather-bound books, gifts from Theon’s Harlaw uncle. A half dozen newer copies of ironborn histories and legend. They are a fine enough way to occupy the day on the calm seas.

There is a volume bound in fine verdigris leather on the nine voyages of Corlys Velaryon. Alive during the Dance of the Dragons, Lord Velaryon had been the first Westerosi man to reach the faraway sorcerer’s city of Asshai-by-the-Shadow and later sailed far north of the Wall in a fruitless attempt to find the northern edge of Westeros. Another hardback volume in embossed black with silver clasps and fittings, titled _The Iron Chronicle_ , is an account of the mighty ironborn House Hoare and their dominion over the riverlands in the time before Aegon’s Conquest. A third, slim tome, records the legends of the ironborn from the Dawn Age.

The storied histories of this strangest people of Westeros; older than the Andals, older than even the First Men, if one believed the ironborn’s own claims. They had not come overland across the Arm of Dorne, they claim, but rather climbed out of the sea upon fins long before other men ever saw the lands.

How incredible, unlikely, that this tiny race of men clinging to these weatherbeaten rocks would survive, preserved and largely unaltered, all these thousands of years.

And Jon knows that. Knows that is the reason—part of the reason, at least—that Theon is so fiercely protective of his ironborn heritage. So desperately wants to prove himself to his people. Be a worthy guardian of that heritage. Living in the port city of Braavos had opened Jon’s eyes to how _varied_ and _myriad_ the ways and peoples of the world are. It makes a man feel small. Vulnerable. Permeable. Critical of his own way of life but also—conversely—defensive of it. As if the wide swarm of the world could swallow you and yours up and forget that you were ever there.

In the North, Jon had known only other northmen. Southerners had been uncommon enough visitors in Winterfell, and men from beyond the Narrow Sea a true rarity, coming through only on the odd merchant caravan or as sellswords or mummers. Winterfell is so far inland from everything, surrounded by miles and miles of more northern wilderness. The castle has stood for thousands of years, housed hundreds of Starks, stretching back generations. It had never felt in danger of melting away into history.

Jon is not the first Stark bastard, he knows, but certainly it feels that way most days. A stain upon all that ancestry. Destined to be obscured from those storied histories. No future Stark children will learn his name in those long afternoons lessons spent pouring over genealogies, commiting the name of every Stark back for a hundred years to memory.

And what for? In the end, that is all Jon had ever really wanted to ask his father. What for?

What good had it done to keep Jon in Winterfell, a beloved outsider, unbelonging, always so agonizingly close to what could never be his.

Perhaps, once he finally learns his mother’s name, he will know.

That evening, Wex returns with a warm meal. Salt-stained and chilly, the boy’s hair is wild from a day on the deck. The little squire resolutely does not look at Jon as he lays down two steaming bowls of stewed mussels upon the desk. No acknowledgement as the boy darts about the cabin lighting the candles in the lanterns and changing the washbasin water. Skulking about like a skittish dog. Recalling what Theon told him, Jon holds up his head and refuses to be abashed. 

He eats with Theon who is brimming with discussion of the day’s tasks; the quality of the ship, the sails, the lines, the crew. Jon dare not interrupt. The earlier misgiving has all but dissolved away.

Up on deck, the bell rings, signalling the changing of the shift between the sailors. Theon dismisses Wex, and the boy flees to the galley to play dice.

Jon and Theon dress for sleeping. On the open sea the winds are punishingly frigid. Sleeping bare is out of the question. 

Tucked into their sleeping furs, Jon lays tucked close next to Theon. His first full days as captain have left him in good humour. Theon reclines with his arms folded behind his head, gazing up at the beams with a lazy look of content. 

Perhaps that is why Jon dares to ask him. “What had you meant to say this morning?” 

“What’s that?”

“After poor Wex had gone, and I helped you to dress… you had the look like you wanted to say more, but didn’t.”

Wincing, Theon closes his eyes. “You do notice everything, don’t you?”

“It was a necessity, growing up.”

A laugh, and then Theon quiets with contemplation. The yellow lantern light casts dark shadows across his face. A salty wind howls against the hull. Jon waits.

Exhaling, Theon compels himself to confess. "I've never had anything I cared for, do you understand? Everything I had, they took away from me. A child of nine with nothing more to lose. And aboard the ship from Pyke I swore that I would never, never let anyone take anything from me ever again. And to assure that, I could never care for anything at all. Because anything that I cared for was only one further thing I stood to lose. Don't you see? It makes me weak. I hate being weak."

"I am a weakness to you?"

"Yes, you are." He smiles madly. "For you, Jon Snow, I would do things against my own interest. I would betray anything. I would undo myself. If ever someone wanted to harm me, they know just where to start."

He turns, wraps an arm around Jon.

"And now, you ask me again to rely on the goodness of your father. A man who I lived in mortal fear of. Every bit of kindness he ever did me was out of obligation and duty and it would've been better if he had just been cruel!"

Propelled by the thought, Theon sits up, newly agitated.

"You think I cannot take cruelty? It was all I knew as a child. It would have been better. Had your father been cruel and wicked. At least then I could hate him properly."

That, Jon knows all too well.

Theon must be reminiscing too because when he speaks, he asks, “Can you remember back to when we began all this?”

“You mean in the godswood? I’m not likely to forget it. Not many boys get to lose their virtue to Theon Greyjoy with such clamour.” 

It is only half mockery, but Theon smiles and swats him lightly on the head. “I meant before that. Before, when it was still just… a sort of game we played between ourselves.”

“Was it all a game to you?”

“Well, at the time I thought as much. Now, who can say if that was true? Perhaps that is what I told myself so I didn’t fear it when it was happening.”

Jon listens to Theon’s heartbeat beneath his ear and considers. “You confused me, then,” he reminisces to answer Theon’s original question. “At first, it felt like another one of your hateful tricks: how you would be kind to me when we were all alone and then go right back to being cruel as soon as someone was there to see you being cruel. But as mad as it drove me as a boy it also felt… powerful. Alluring somehow, I suppose. Like I had a secret of yours that you shared only with me. And so then even when you were cruel it did not bother me as much because I knew… I had glimpsed the inside of your heart, and it made all your nasty words like paper arrows.”

“I wanted to hate you as a boy.” Theon says it flatly, staring up at the beams of the deck overhead. His fingertips draw small circles in Jon’s hair. “I think I even might have for a time. You had everything I longed for. Bothers. A proud father. I wanted Robb’s favour and you had it just by breathing. I wanted Lord Stark’s praise and you won it over me. They all loved you more than me and I couldn’t stand it. Because I was a lord’s son and you were just…” He stops himself, closes his eyes. “But whenever I tried to hate you, I would see it in your eyes, on your face, that pitiful, lost look and I knew I could never hate you like I wanted, because I understood.”

“Understood what?”

“That sadness you carried around. It was like mine.” 

Jon shifts against him. “And you thought that our matching sorrows should bind us together?”

“I don’t know,” Theon sighs, shrugging beneath Jon’s chin. “Never thought about it that much.”

Both of them lapse into silence for a moment. They have not truely talked about Winterfell in some time. 

Their cabin rocks and sways. A slow, pendulous rhythm, back and forth like a child’s cradle. In the cabin their lanterns hang on short chains from the ceiling beams so that they do not topple from the ocean swells. Hanging plumb as the ship pitches and rolls slowly around them. Their candlelight rocks in tandem with the ship’s hull, pitching shadows over the room that swell and grow and retreat into the corners with each wave that passes beneath the ship. The effect is hypnotic, dizzying, soothing. As if they slipped into a timeless land where the sun wobbles in the sky and the sea waters are forever at neap tide.

“So after I had determined that I could not hate you,” Theon continues after a long silence, as if there had been no pause, “instead I decided that you were merely a nuisance. Like the younger children. A pest that could be appeased with only a few meaningless smiles and a kind word.”

“I do so love when you go one about how you admire me,” Jon returns dryly. 

“And still I was envious of you,” he ignores Jon’s sarcasm, “but to my horror, it was no longer only envy of what you _had_ , but envy of what you _were_. Your composure, your surety. You were a boy younger than me and yet you had these effortless qualities of patience and justice. It’s like you were born a wise old man. Somehow, you had this dignity that I felt I was owed. Because you were a wolf among wolves. And I was a changeling. And even the lowest wolf belonged more than I ever could.”

It is not in Theon’s usual nature to be so contemplative, and Jon does not interrupt him again. He will hear whatever Theon is driving at. 

“At times, I still worry…” he peters off. “Well, anyway, I suppose that’s why your father never took a liking to me. I was too unlike his own people, his own sons. He held onto his suspicions. Forever waiting for me to grow fins and tentacles and lay waste to his holdfast, even as a child.”

A thought occurs to Jon, whole and fully realized, and it’s out of his mouth before his wits can catch up with his tongue. 

“Do you really think Father would have taken your head if the king commanded it?”

Theon pulls back to look at him, astonished. “Do you _not_?”

“I want to think not.” Jon runs a hand over his own face, brushing Theon’s fingertips in his hair. “How could he harm you for something that was no fault of yours? He knew it was wrong. I saw it in his face. He disagreed with the king’s order to send you to the Wall. I know he did.”

“But he would have carried it out all the same.”

“And then what good is a dead hostage in war? Had your father ever rebelled again, would you not have been of more value to the king alive?”

“The king would not have sought my father’s surrender a second time. He would have put an end to the Greyjoy name, more like. As he did to the Targaryens. Given our lands away and installed a more loyal house in the Iron Islands.”

“You were only a child. Robb’s friend. Nearly a brother. Father couldn’t have done it.”

“Jon—”

“If not, then… then I don’t think I can ever forgive him for that. That… that would not have been justice. No more than sending you to the Wall would have been justice. It would have been murder. It would have been _kinslaying_.”

Theon kisses Jon’s hair. “You need not defend me from your father anymore, Jon.”

Jon chastises himself. “I should not have mentioned it.” Upsetting Theon with this sort of speculation is not his aim. He curls more tightly against his side. “I hate that I still love him. I hate to love someone that you fear so much.”

“If Lord Stark were my father, I would love him, too.”

"But a child's love for his father cannot absolve him."

"Your father did me no evil, Jon. Only his duty, which is all he ever did for me. If it had been you or Robb who were _our_ prisoners, we would not have been half as kind."

“It’s not fair how you were treated.”

Theon snorts. “Fair has nothing to do with it, Snow.”

“It ought to.”

“But it doesn't. Never has. You’ll burn your tender heart out with that sort of thinking. If you grieve and mourn every petty unfairness, you’ll exhaust your kindness before winter gets here. And then what will be left in my bed? A bitter old man with a sweet boy’s face.”

“I wish I were like you. I always have. Wish I could… laugh it all away.”

“You know that laugh was as false as anything.”

“But still, you manage to let all the unfairness roll off of you like water off a seal. It never touches you. You manage to… to sequester it off in some part of your mind and go about your affairs. Then as a boy, and still today. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Fakery, mostly.”

Jon chuckles. He turns his head, resting his chin on Theon’s shoulder to look up at his face. “Then it was fakery for me, as well.”

“What was?”

“That… _pride_ and _surety_ you speak of. I’ve never felt it. No, I was every bit lost and an outcast. With each passing year I belonged less and less in Winterfell. You say I was a wolf among wolves, but... I doubt if it was ever true.”

“Well, you had me fooled, then. You had us all fooled.”

Jon considers this. He has never thought himself steady or proud. Those always seemed like attributes more descriptive of his lord father. Jon has always thought himself short-tempered and glum. 

“So then,” Jon chuckles after a moment of thought, “are we just two frauds, posturing and posing like roosters with no one there to see us?”

Theon shifts to get comfortable. “That sounds like something we’d do, mayhaps.”

“And am I a fool for trusting Father?”

“More than anything, I wish I could say that you were.”

And more than anything, Jon wishes the same. At least then, he would not be so horribly torn on what the right path was. Why could it not be simple?

Soon after, long before Wex douses the lanterns and crawls into his own hammock, they both drift off to sleep on the swelling breath of the sea.


	8. Theon

Theon is woken from a doze with a soft kiss to his cheek. Blinking, he opens his eyes to a hazy dark blur eclipsing the lamplight. Jon grins down at him from a halo of black curls before shuffling out of their bunk. 

Limbs tangled in their bedding, Theon stretches the sleep from his limbs. He allows himself to languish, the swaying waves to carry him to peace. Their cabin creaks as it rocks gently. Water breaks against the hull. It’s dark beyond the thick glass windows. Late by now, though young Wex has not been by yet to snuff out their lanterns. The bell for the shift changeover must have rung while they were fucking. Or while Theon was drowsing. Worthiness demands that he make his way up shortly, make himself known, and see that all is well above deck before turning in for the day. 

With a loud groan, Theon stretches again, bowing his spine off the featherbed before slumping back heavily.

Turning his head, Theon watches appreciatively as Jon pulls on a tunic and sinks into the stuffed chair behind the desk. There is a large open book upon the desk. Jon had been reading it earlier. His black curls are tangled and bedraggled about his face, and to Theon, it gives him the appearance of an unshorn sheep. How Theon loves to ruck and pull at and run his hands through that hair.

"What are you reading there?" Theon mumbles from the unmade bunk.

"It's a gift from your uncle. He had a few choice volumes placed in your care while we were at Ten Towers." Jon folds the hardback over and leafs to the title page. "'Sea Demons'," he reads, "'A History of the Children of the Drowned God of the Isles.' I’ve been reading about your ancestors. Charming sort of folk."

"My uncle does love his reading more than women or wine," Theon acknowledges. "And what havoc are my ancestors inflicting in this tome?"

Jon flips the hardback cover open again to the page he had been reading before. "Reaving the Westerlands during the Targaryen civil war. A Dalton Greyjoy was Lord of the Islands then. Called the Red Kraken. A young man, and a cunning, savage warrior. While the country was at war and the dragons danced, he sacked Lannisport and stole away gold and hundreds of women from the mainland."

"Ah, I know Dalton Greyjoy. Twenty-two salt wives."

"Maybe more, this says."

"And what about my wicked ancestor has you so captivated?" 

"Well, he’s a bit of an opportunist, it would seem. Perhaps a shrewd man, or perhaps a madman. Made the Iron Islands rich and powerful in his short life. But after the fighting between the dragons was done, the Warden of the Westerlands demanded that Dalton Greyjoy return the stolen noblewomen. Lord Dalton refused."

"Of course he did."

"He told Lord Lannister…” Jon frowns, searching back to the line he had been reading. “He told Lord Lannister, 'only the Drowned God may sunder the bond between a man and his salt wives.' He never returned a single girl."

Theon shrugs. “I suppose he would know.”

“That means there is not a man alive who can rightly take me from you,” Jon notes quietly, glancing at Theon. “Not the lord of a great house. Not the Warden of the West. Not even the king.”

"A thing is only yours if you can keep it. Laws do not make it so. Appealing to the gods does not make it so. Only having it makes it so. That is what we mean when we say 'the iron price'."

"And he did keep them. The westerwomen were never returned."

"Then it was Dalton who preserved their bond, not any god."

Jon considers this in silence.

Theon stands from the bed and takes the book out from under Jon’s hands. Bowing close over the desk so that his lips brush the dark curls at Jon’s ear. “What spurs this interest into our laws and customs now? Are you worried that someone might try and steal you back?”

Jon sighs. "I would be a fool not to worry."

"Oh, Snow, those could be your house words."

Jon does not laugh at the jest, only watches Theon fold the book shut in front of him. "But instead it would seem that I am rightfully yours, by laws of gods and men.”

"The laws of gods are worth nothing to the quarrels of men. I'd doubt there'd be quite so many wars fought if men agreed on the laws."

"Well, I find it a relief,” he counters. “I'd worried perhaps you had invented salt wives as a ruse to bed me."

“You think I would lie to you?” 

“Embellish, perhaps. You had a reputation for it.”

“I’ve no need to embellish what you are to me,” Theon tells him. He steps around and slides between the desk and chair to straddle naked on Jon’s lap. A little cramped in the stuff chair, but Jon does not mind. “And I’ll not give you away for laws or decorum. Let them gawk and sneer. What concern are they to me? The only law I will abide is that of my ancestors. And in that law, it is my right as an ironborn to slay anyone who tries to take you from me.”

Jon's body shivers in response. 

Grinning, Theon leans in to nip at Jon’s throat.

“No one will take you from me, Jon Snow. Not the king. Not my damned sister. And not your father.”

“Theon —”

“I gave Wex to Cleftjaw for the night,” Theon tells him, smirking. “If you’re — you’re hoping to be loud.”

Bright red, Jon laughs a little madly as he pushes Theon’s chest. “God, you're not serious...”

“Perhaps you could read it to me, if you'd like,” Theon mumbles, pulling Jon against him between his knees, “while you take me like this. Recount to me the courageous deeds of my ancestors, every ship sundered, every raid fought, every woman taken.”

“I don’t think I could manage —” again, Jon laughs, stuttering, “I can’t read while... and you only just had me! It hasn’t been more than an hour.”

“Tired, Snow?” 

Face still burning pink, Jon shakes his head, a bit defiant. 

Theon only tisks and tilts Jon’s chin up. He kisses the junction of Jon’s throat, musing, “Perhaps you’ve had enough of me, fair Snow. Can’t keep up with my appetites, after all. How many salt wives did old Dalton have? Twenty-two? Perhaps he was onto something.”

“And he was murdered in his bed by one of them,” warns Jon breathlessly. “Perhaps it’d be best to focus your efforts on pleasing your current lover. Lest I decide to do away with you.”

Theon grinds his hips downward to knock that smirk of Jon’s face. “Oh, aye,” he says, tilting Jon’s head back further into his hand. “Then I shall.”

Theon never does make it back on deck before dawn.

The seas are mostly mild and the winds steady. Black and sturdy, the longship slips between the waves like a knife. Quicker than any vessel Theon can recall ever being aboard. Far more light and nimble than the cogs and flyships they’d taken on the journey from Braavos. Like a well-bred destrier stallion compared to a pack pony. When he stands aboard the quarterdeck and looks out over the waves, the wild and indifferent sea, feeling the wind whip over his hair, billow his clothes, Theon’s heart brims with pride. 

And as secluded as it is possible to be aboard a crowded longship, he and Jon manage to retain their peace. 

Wex dutifully makes himself scarce. But Jon puts a stop to it soon. His misled compassion for his fellow bastard is steadfast.

“Join us while we break our fast in the galley, Wex,” Jon offers one morning after Wex helps Theon dress. 

Theon rolls his eyes. Jon dotes on him like a little brother. The boy ought to be the one waiting on _him_.

Wex, too, reacts to the invitation with trepidation, turning to Theon for instruction.

“Come along, then, boy,” Theon relents, “doubt you ever get enough to eat as it is.”

Phrased as a command, Wex obeys and follows. 

In the smoky galley there are a handful of tired-looking sailors breaking their fast along the trestle tables. None of them take any notice of their captain taking a seat at the far end.

Wex scurries to fetch meals for them, and Theon can’t help but smile when Jon follows without thinking. Sitting comfortably at the bench, he watches as Jon collects three mugs of freshwater so that Wex can easily balance three servings of laverbread and hardtack. Jon takes a seat next to Theon, helping Wex lay the meals onto the table.

“Did you ever have any lessons before starting to squire, Wex?” Jon asks conversationally, taking a bite of hardtack smeared with laverbread. Whenever Jon had first tried the dish upon their arrival at Pyke, he had nearly gagged. It pleases Theon to see that it seems to hardly bother him any longer. “The captain says you are skilled with a knife. My brother and I used to practice throwing knives at targets when we were boys, but we were never much good. Though I have seen you play dice as well. Do you know many dice games?”

Belatedly, Theon notices Wex is staring right at him, instead of attempting to answer Jon’s questions. 

He looks between Wex and Jon a moment before asking, “What’s that face for, boy?”

Wex furrows his brow and shakes his head, hapless.

Theon smirks. “Is that a no, you don’t play dice games?”

This time, Wex shrugs. He glances at the other sailors in the galley, some of them now noting their table with mild derision. Shifting, the boy taps his fingers on the wood of the table.

“Do you not know any dice games?” Jon asks with more cheer than must be genuine. Theon sips his freshwater, watching their interaction curiously. “Perhaps I might teach you some, if you’d like. Northern ones, but I’ll be happy to play them with you. Life is dull for me upon the ship.” 

Wex blinks owlishly at him.

“And what if I have need of my squire,” Theon interjects. “Shall he be allowed to laze about all day dicing?”

Whipping his head around, Wex is aghast. He turns back to Jon and shakes his head with vigorous refusal.

“What have you done to this poor boy that has him so fearful?” admonishes Jon.

Theon shrugs. “Put him to work.”

“Ah, tending your washing and sharpening your sword,” Jon says with a click of his tongue. “A nobler task there never was.”

“Mock all you like, Snow. Enough noble work and he’ll be made a knight or a captain one day.”

“Us bastards can be captains, can we?”

“If you sharpen enough swords.”

Jon knocks Theon playfully with his elbow. 

Before Theon can shove him back, he notices Wex gaping at their interaction, and laughs. “Oh, aye, look at how you’ve scandalized the poor boy. _Again_. Arguing with your captain in front of his men.” With another long gulp of freshwater, he muses, “Perhaps I’ll take your tongue for such an affront, Snow. Keep you nice and quiet like my squire, here.”

Jon tisks. “He doesn’t know you’re joking.”

“Oh, am I?” Theon grins.

Ignoring him, Jon turns back to Wex. “Do not believe him. He does not mean it. You needn’t worry so.”

“Do not tell him not to worry! The lad ought to fear and respect his liege lord. A little bit of dread will inspire obedience and dedication in his duties; I ought to know.”

Jon’s expression falters. It used to be that Theon revelled in being able to stun Jon Snow with his ghastly humour. Any sort of reaction at all had been a victory. After all, who was this bastard to go around with indifference to a high lord’s son and heir? It had been vital to Theon that he not be ignored. These days, his is a no less spiteful aim. 

Still, Theon notes that it feels victorious even now to provoke him. 

Wex also detects the tension. His large, wild eyes flick rapidly back and forth between them, perhaps deciding if he might have to take up a kitchen knife in defense of his lord.

But, recovering, Jon only smiles weakly and bites off another mouthful of laverbread. 

Part of Theon, a traitorous part, still enjoys watching him yield. 

It sets a disquieting mood in Theon. A bitter, nasty sort of melancholy. Not a state he’s been in for some time. Glowering, he turns to Wex. The boy dutifully drops his gaze to his own meal and hurriedly stuffs a bite in his mouth.

Perhaps Theon shall pay for it later, but Jon at least will know better than to question him in front of his crew again.

Life aboard the _Sea Bitch_ bears some similarity to how life had been in Braavos. Their days are filled with toil and strangers but at the end of the day they can retreat to the confines of their little cabin and take solace in one another. And while Theon’s presence is necessary above on deck throughout the day, he finds he can duck away to the captain’s cabin often enough. It is his role to give orders, and the duty of other men to carry them out. 

In defiance of his usual somberness, Jon’s mood is buoyant. Going north has roused some fiery agitation within him. He jests about being kept in the captain’s chambers like a smuggled pet. He is not truly confined to the cabin and spends time upon the deck, watching the waves. The crew work around him, indifferent.

Most of their free moments are spent shared together in their bunk.

If anything, being at sea has turned Jon as insatiable as he’d been when they were boys. It is a game, perhaps, that he likes to play with Theon. The needy salt wife. 

Or perhaps he is trepidatious to be sailing north. Fears that he may venture to Winterfell and, despite his promises, never leave again. And needs the comfort of his lover.

Jon does not say. And Theon, a coward himself, does not ask.

The sky is low and ash grey, spackled with faint rain and wind. Last land had been sighted days ago. Since then, their ship has been the solitary sight upon the waves. A lone pilgrim among leagues and leagues of empty grey ocean. Theon watches from the quarterdeck, gazing out over the foaming wake left in their path. The only sign their ship had ever crossed here at all. A streak of swirling froth and ripples, like a southern bride’s wedding veil. He has not been on deck too long. Perhaps an hour or two. He had broke fast with a few quieter sailors in the galley, but the morning is waning, and with Wex off on some errand nowhere to be seen, Theon must return to his cabin to consult a map he’d been studying the previous night. 

Jon had been asleep long before Theon joined him in bed, and was still asleep when Theon woke and dressed this morning. When he returns to the cabin, he finds Jon splayed half-dressed over the featherbed. 

“Ah, good morning then,” Theon says with a smirk. “Sleep well?”

“You didn’t wake me,” Jon mutters in a sleepy voice.

Walking past the desk strewn with crinkled maps, Theon reaches to brush a bedraggled curl from Jon’s face. “You looked so sweet, I didn’t have the heart.”

Smiling, Jon sits up a little straighter so that he can capture Theon’s mouth into a kiss. It’s soft, and Jon lets out a soft moan that leads Theon back onto the mattress. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Theon scoffs, running his hand along the inside of Jon’s thigh. “Left yearning this morning, were you?”

Jon swats his hand away. “You’re busy. I can manage.”

“Mm, but?”

Jon shakes his head to deny it, but Theon can see the discipline already slipping from his eyes. All that infamous Stark resolve. It melts away at Theon's touch. 

"Get on your feet," commands Theon darkly.

Jon does. He climbs out of bed. Only a loose homespun tunic hangs to his knees. Black hair unbound and uncombed from sleep.

Theon licks his lips. Snow is a vision. A vision only Theon has ever tasted.

Taking hold of that dark mane of hair, Theon tilts Jon's head back. Jon gasps. Theon shoves a hand beneath Jon's tunic, groping his flanks, his chest. 

Quivering, Jon endures it, revels it. 

Leaning in, Theon kisses him hard on the mouth, slipping his tongue past those inviting, parted lips. Jon opens to allow him in.

Taking the dagger from his belt, Theon slips the knifepoint beneath Jon's tunic. Slowly, steadily, he draws a line up the center of Jon’s chest, picking up the front of the garment. Fabric gathers on the blade, up and aup, until the dagger's tip rests just beneath Jon's chin. Jon swallows. His throat bobs against the knifepoint. A red blush rises on his chest. 

Staring him in the eye, Theon rips the knife back and Jon stumbles as the fabric splits down the middle. The ruined garment slips off Jon's arms, pooling on the cabin floor.

Standing naked before Theon, Jon's body is flushed and inviting. His face, his chest, even his arms blushing pink in anticipation. And he is hard. Makes no effort to hide it.

"Turn around," orders Theon as he resheathes his dagger, "put your elbows on the desk."

Stepping over his torn clothes, Jon bends over Theon's desk without a word. 

His body takes on the position so beautifully. Exposed, vulnerable, he holds himself steady. Somehow proud in this debasing pose. Jon is strong and well-formed, even foregoing a year of training and riding. He is more a man than ever. Hardly a trace of boyishness left in his figure. Strong arms, a long, broad back. Even a smattering of dark hair on his chest and legs. 

He gasps when Theon boldly swipes his hand over Jon's entrance, and Theon scoffs to find him slick.

"You readied yourself for me?"

"No," Jon whimpers as Theon toys with his body, "no. I never… never washed from last night."

"Filthy," growls Theon.

"Wanted to remember it," he moans, trying to hide it in his forearms.

That inflames his desire. Suddenly, the game is urgent, drastic. Theon's hands scramble to undo his belt. "You certainly have a whore's appetites, Snow."

Jon half-cries, half-groans at that. 

Taking hold of Jon's hips, Theon pushes inside of him rough and hasty. Still slick, still warm from when Theon had taken him last night. His body opens for him, relenting and surrendering. The maps on the desk crumple under his elbows. A low, hungry moan falls from Jon's mouth as Theon enters him. Tossing his head, he casts an eye at Theon over his shoulder. Watching open-mouthed with rapt hunger as he is ridden by his captain.

Theon fucks him over the desk. A merciless pace from the start, but he cannot be patient. 

They move together. Chase their release together. Each forceful, unyielding thrust jolts the desk on its bolts beneath them. The cabin fills with the clap of their bodies meeting, the muted grunts and cries of their frenzy.

Theon grips Jon's dark hair tight, forcing his head down to the parchments upon the desk. Jon goes easy. Always so receptive. It stokes Theon's pride, to have this stubborn, fierce man bend to his pleasure. That sense of conquest, of bringing another man to heel, that had been part of what had driven Theon to try men that first time. More than just kissing and teasing enthusiastic stableboys in darkened corners. Daring himself when he had been barely six-and-ten and had first laid eyes on a boywhore at the brothel outside Winterfell. A sweet, willowy thing with a painted face, not much older than himself. On a venturesome impulse, Theon had bought him for the night. The boy had been a generous teacher. He had let Theon claim him over and over. Taught him how to take a man. How to prepare one. How to make him quiver and yield. Never once offending his ironborn pride. The boy had made soft, pretty noises as a girl would, and sated his appetites just the same.

And though that boy had been pretty and girlish, it had not fooled Theon. The boy’s body, his attributes, there had been no mistaking them. Having a boy is a completely different thing to having a girl. Women are coaxed; men are conquered.

Beneath him, Jon keens and slams his palms hard against the desk, bracing. Theon can feel it when he cries out. Release pulsing through Jon so forcefully that for a moment Theon thinks it is his own. Grabbing a fistful of Jon’s hair, he bares his throat and bites down, claiming as he chases his own release.

Whimpering, Jon grapples at Theon’s hair where he can reach, pulling hard, whining, but he does not twist away.

As the wash of pleasure ebbs, Theon pulls back to kiss where his teeth indent against pale skin. Much like an audience, Jon pines to be marked — evidence that cannot be explained away. He fantasizes, Theon thinks, of being caught. Jon will complain of the mark when his head is clear, but Theon knows him. Knows that he will not take effort to hide it. Knows that Jon will touch it when he thinks no one is looking.

Though Theon’s legs wobble, he steadies himself against the desk until he can lift Jon in his arms. Letting out a squeal, Jon wraps his thighs around Theon’s waist, arms loose about Theon’s shoulders as he steps over to their bed and throws them down into the quilts.

Dazed, Jon stares up at him fondly, face pink as he catches his breath. It is still intoxicating, the way Jon looks at him whenever they lie together. As if Theon is the thing that allows him to keep breathing.

Drawing his thumb over Jon’s plump, well-bitten lip, Theon watches him blink back to himself.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but is rudely interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Busy,” Theon calls without looking away from Jon. 

Jon nods to the door. “It may be important,” he pants.

Uninterested, Theon hums. “In a moment,” he promises, tracing his fingers lightly over Jon’s rosy skin to watch him squirm.

“ _Theon,_ ” Jon huffs, “you’re the _captain._ ”

“Mhm.” Theon presses a kiss behind Jon’s ear before he pulls back and calls loud enough for the other side of the cabin door to hear, “Aye, what is it, then?”

Without further warning, door swings wide open, and Theon jumps up swearing, “ _Fuck!_ ” He throws their quilts over Jon before recognizing the harsh little face of his squire. “Wex. Seven fucking hells. What is it?”

Wex is no longer a stranger to the sight of them abed, though he casts his eyes down as he shuffles inside and latches the door behind. The tips of his ears bloom bright red as he points up sheepishly to the low cabin ceiling.

“It would seem you’re needed on deck,” Jon mumbles from where he hides under the quilts. 

Nodding in affirmation, Wex lays a finger over the center of his lips and forces a wild sort of grin on his doe-eyed face. Theon frowns. He’s learned what that gesture means, at least. Dagmer Cleftjaw. 

“Aye, fine, is it urgent?”

Wex shrugs. 

“Tell him I’ll be up in a moment, then.”

With another nod, Wex slips back out the door. 

Jon groans from where he’s buried under the blankets, eyes barely visible from the folds of quilts.

“Aye, the boy has seen worse of us by now, surely,” Theon chuckles, poking the blankets.

“It’s hardly any less humiliating.”

Laughing, Theon leans over, pushing at the shapeless lump of Jon under the blankets. “A farewell kiss, at least?”

A fond, exasperated sigh emits as he pushes Theon away. “ _Go,_ you insatiable lout.”

Dressing quickly, Theon makes his way above deck somewhat dazedly. A good fuck always sends his thoughts into a bit of a fog, and he tries to shake as much of it away as he can before he can see white-haired Dagmer standing at the back of the quarterdeck, surveying the wake. Theon climbs up to meet him.

It’s an uncommonly sour look on Dagmer’s cloven face when he turns to regard Theon.

“Have you only just woken, boy?”

Absently, Theon reaches up to smooth his hair. “What concern is it of yours?”

“Oh, aye, I know you were not sleeping,” Dagmer returns, “as does every other man aboard this ship.”

“Then why question me?” glares Theon.

“To see if you had such decency as to lie about it,” Dagmer says with a frown.

“And why should I lie?” Theon bites. “I am captain of this ship. I shall do as I please.”

Dagmer scowls, grimly. "But first you must find time to be a captain, now and again, lad.”

“Well if that is the true reason for your contempt of me, then be out with it. Do not talk circles with me, Cleftjaw. You are poor at it. You are only crabbed because you do not trust Jon.”

“No, I do not,” Dagmer agrees, “and it worries me that you do. It worries the men that you do, as well. He consumes your attention.”

“Drowned fuck, you’re worse than my sister, old man,” snaps Theon. “Has she turned you into a suspicious old nursemaid, or is it _you_ that raised _her_ to be a distrustful shrew? Jon’s loyalty is not in question. It is by his aid that I am here at all.”

“You speak those greenlander words as if you believe them. You are ironborn, Greyjoy. You have the strength in you to find the sea alone.”

Theon does not contest. He knows it is not true, has known it for so long that he’s forgotten others cannot see it just by looking at him. That he is a coward. How has he fooled them all for so long? 

Still, why bother to confess it now, to Dagmer, after renouncing his claim… the mere idea turns his mouth to ash. Perhaps he was never meant to be ironborn. Perhaps his father always knew it of him, even naming him for a Stark.

“Was there any other purpose to your calling me,” Theon says at last, “or did you simply wish to continue to chastise me as a child?”

“If you do not wish to be chastised as one, then do not act as a child that's just discovered his own prick,” Dagmer answers. “These are your men, Greyjoy. It is you who must lead them. Your bastard pet can wait until nightfall.”

“Do not call him that. If the men aboard this ship are mine to lead then so are you, and I will not have you disrespect him to my face.” Theon’s heart burns in rage. Can he have nothing, no matter where he stands? “On the deck of your ship, you may be captain, but upon my ship, I am yours. And upon my ship, I shall do as I please with my guests and not take insubordination from crew. Now, what reason brought me here? Is there nothing further to discuss than Jon?”

Dagmer’s split face pulls grotesquely as he scowls. “You need to be warned of the storm, captain,” he says tightly. Dagmer turns to gaze over the railing. On the far horizon in their wake, a bank of tall, dark clouds roll low over the waves. “An autumn squall coming off the sea. It shall be upon us in an hour or two. We’ll be running downwind of most of it, but the waves may broach us if we do not alter course.”

A bright, defensive rage flares in Theon’s chest. He has to swallow to push it back. It is a new sort of fog clouding his rationale now. 

Sucking at his teeth, he asks at last, “The squall cannot be avoided?”

“Not unless the winds slow some. It blows strong to the east, bringing the gale with it. The rains have been growing more frequent.”

“Aye, fine. Eastwards is where we are headed. Even adjusting for the swells, we might ride the storm downwind and gain a day’s sail. Send full crew to man the oars, then,” Theon instructs, waving his hand, “and two teams to man the whipstaff in shifts. They can return back to usual shifts when the worst has subsided. Double rations to each man for a day, once we're on the other side of it.”

Dagmer nods, and Theon chews on the inside of his cheek, waiting for further response, but none comes.

“Is that all, Cleftjaw?”

The old man’s split mouth growls in frustration. "Could you not have carried off one of Stark's daughters to fuck?"

"What business is it of yours who I fuck, old man? I shall have whoever I like. And Eddard Stark's daughters are children. Neither have even bled." Let them think that is the reason he never fucked Ned Stark's girls.

Dagmer relents slightly. “No offense meant, lad,” he promises, though Theon does not believe him. “I only meant it as a caution. Crewmen talk, Greyjoy.”

“Aye, it seems they do little else,” Theon cannot help but growl. “I do hope they stop wagging their tongues like a gaggle of nursemaids long enough to see us through this storm, don’t you?”

“Greyjoy —”

“Stop that,” Theon snaps. “I’m not a boy anymore. And I am no longer your charge. You’ll address me as ‘captain,’ as everyone else on this damned ship is meant to.”

At that, Dagmer falls silent. After a moment, he nods. “Aye, captain.”

Huffing, Theon pushes off the railing and descends the quarterdeck. As he turns to the hatch to retreat below, Theon near collides into a lanky deckhand with oily dark hair fallen out from his braid and sticking onto his pale face. 

“Fuck!” Theon snaps, catching himself from toppling head first onto the deck. “Watch it, would you?”

The deckhand’s eyebrows raise slightly as he takes in Theon’s appearance. “Beggin’ your pardon, captain.”

Theon feels foolish for lashing out. The last thing he wants is for Dagmer to be right. “No, no need,” he dismisses, waving his hand. “My fault.”

The deckhand’s smile is off-putting — teeth grey and small with thin, pale lips — but it is not unkind. He’s the quiet sort, and says nothing else before leaving. Many ironborn are like this. Pragmatic and terse. Another way they are nothing like him.

Dagmer has shaken him. He dare not return to his cabin so early, and so he wanders about the deck, observing the sailors move and work. The winds have been good, and they have been able to steer a course mostly by sail for the bulk of their voyage. Less rowing makes for a happier crew. Theon quietly thanks the Drowned God for that. At least the sea has been kind to him.

Around the black mast, men are hauling cordage for the sails, replacing the lines that run through the clews. A few are singing a bawdy shanty. They halt in their work to let Theon go by but do not interrupt their song. 

Toward the bow, he finds Wex dumping the dirty water of the crew’s tin washbasins over the railing. 

When the boy notices Theon, he nearly drops the basin in his arms to stand at attention. Jon says the boy reminds him of Arya, but Theon cannot imagine an Arya so compliant. 

“You’re fine, Wex,” he dismisses, “go back to your work. You’re welcome to join Jon when you’re finished with that. He’ll need a fresh wash basin as well.”

Aside from Wex, the crewmen do not acknowledge him. To the ironborn, it is an insult to address their captain without cause. A man ought to let another man do his task, and interfere only when work is substandard. Close supervision implies incompetence. So Theon spends the time trying to remember their names as he passes them. They have been largely hardworking and obedient, though removed. No friendly camaraderie to be had with these men. He supposes there’s no need to insult him further, when he already knows these men are only here because of his sister’s wishes.

Theon leans his back against the railing, looking toward the stern. In their wake, the dark storm on the horizon draws closer. Rain flecks upon the wind. It will be a bumpy night. The crew seems to handle themselves well enough without any instruction. 

It embarrasses him, standing around this way with nothing to do, but he’s too shamed by Dagmer to retire back to his bunk. He only stands by the railing for some time, watching the waves. Unnaturally calm and slow. In front of the coming storm, the ocean looks like glass beneath them. 

Wind sharpens. The storm edges closer. The crew is heading below deck to man the oars. Theon waits until he is the last man standing on the main deck before taking his leave once more. 

In the cabin, Wex is playing dice with Jon, coppers stacked in a neat pile beside him. At the sight of his captain, the boy hurries to his feet. But Theon only wants to be alone with Jon.

“The men are all manning the oars while we pass the storm,” Theon tells them both before pointing at Wex. “Go make yourself useful in the galley. They’ll be expecting double rations when they’re done.”

Wex rushes out.

“The boy may be accustomed to that sort of treatment,” Jon grumbles after the little squire has fled, straightening Wex’s winnings on the table, “but you are not required to be so harsh to him just because you’re ironborn.”

“You want I should be kind to my bastard squire?” That soothes his bitter mood. The crew may find him too soft and green, but to kind-hearted Jon, Theon will always have the mean temper of an ironborn. 

“Yes," Jon replies, "I think you should, whatever my thoughts are worth to you."

"Well don't feel too sorry for the lad." Theon inspects the stack of coppers Wex has won. 

Jon laughs, almost bashful. "I thought I was teaching him, but as it turns out the boy's something of a skilled dicer."

"He seems to have fleeced you. I should have him whipped against the mast for cheating you."

"Do not say that. He won them off me fairly."

"And who gave you those coppers in the first place?" Theon remarks. 

Jon shoots him a withering look. All of the coin Jon has has been by Theon's grace. 

"The boy picks my own pocket through you." Theon walks his fingers up Jon's sleeve, trying to coax a smile from him. "No wonder you have made such a friend of him."

Jon's unamusement does not abate. When he is cross, he looks just like his father.

“Fine,” Theon tells him, “I shall be kinder with the boy. But I wanted — I needed him gone.”

That miserable pout finally falls from Jon’s face. “Well, you do say he’s seen worse of us than —”

Theon rushes to kiss him silent before he can finish. Jon’s mouth falls yielding and warm before Theon pulls away.

“Shut it,” Theon tells him fondly.

Grinning, Jon kisses him again. “We are in for a storm, then?”

“An autumn squall. We will batten down and take the oars and by morning we may have gained a day thanks to the winds.”

“Shall prayers be offered to your god so that we might be seen safely through, then?”

“Fuck prayers. Hard work and skill will see us through this. We make it so, not any god.”

“Then what is left for us to do?”

“Come to bed and pray with me, if you’d like.”


	9. Jon

The foretold storm had come and passed; high seas and stinging rain. Gales had battered the blackened hull; drumming on the walls of their cabin for a night and a day and the rain had not relented. Extinguishing their lanterns lest they tipped, they had pitched and rolled over the swells, riding out the storm. Rough, but Jon had held onto his stomach.

For their capable sailing,Theon rewards the crew with double rations. Sodden, cold, and sore from a night of hard rowing, the men are gladdened to feast and toast in gratitude to their captain.

Nowadays, the only thing Jon misses aboard a ship is privacy. He’d always had so much of it in Winterfell, and even in Braavos. And as a boy he had hated to be ignored and overlooked. Now he cannot take two steps without a crowd of tall, salty men shouldering past.

It does not bother Theon at all. Greyjoy never has taken well to being alone. He thrives with others. Their notice, their attention. As if enough of it would buoy him. The constant busy surge of bodies and voices aboard the ship does not exhaust him as it does Jon. 

But this morning, the stern end of the lower deck is pleasantly deserted, and Jon, having dressed and washed alone, departs for the galley. As he walks, he muses on the peace of taking tea in the atrium garden of their Braavosi boarding house, and moves slowly to appreciate the quiet. 

The ship rocks and creaks atop the waves. The lamplight sways in time. Shadows swelling and shrinking. Voices cry and shout up in the deck, muffled by the beams and the sea. So low overhead, the ceiling gives the impression of being underground. A dark, subterranean cavern. Not unlike the tombs beneath Winterfell. 

As Jon turns to leave the galley, he’s startled to find that he is not alone. 

A sailor he only dimly recognizes blocks his exit. Standing in the passage between the hull and stacked barrels of freshwater, his wiry body is rough and sun-weathered. Tall, he must hunch somewhat below deck. In his unshaven face, two dark sunken eyes bloodshot from salt. They stare him down. Jon does not know his name. All the punishing ruthlessness that Theon had promised of the Iron Islands and its people seem contained in this roughcast man.

Wary, Jon gives the man a nod. “Hello,” he mutters as he maneuvers past him.

The man sneers at him, and Jon hesitates. His teeth are grey, a few of them missing.

“You the captain’s mainlander slut, ain’t ya?”

Jon’s body goes cold. “I — what?”

“Yeah, that’s you. The northman bastard. You like it like a woman, you do?”

Never has anyone confronted him like this about his attachment to Theon. Directly, vulgarly. Like it was an ugly thing. Jon looks away from the sailor and moves to shoulder past him down the corridor.

The sailor slams his hand against the hull, blocking Jon’s escape with his arm. 

“You _are_ a girlish thing, though,” the sailor says. “Try and hide it under that patchy beard all you like, little dog. You’re pretty like a woman. Like cocks as much as one, too?”

“Let me through,” Jon insists, lowly. 

The man lets out a ravenous chuckle, and Jon smells his rancid breath. 

Standing up as straight as he can, Jon commands, “I ask again that you let me through.”

“You gonna order me about, are you?” the sailor returns with a snarl, bumping his chest into Jon’s. “Wanna be a little captain yourself?”

Jon moves to shove past him, but the sailor is quick like a serpent. When Jon tries to shoulder him out of the way, a hand grabs him, spins him. Another arm rips around Jon’s neck and face, a palm splayed over Jon’s mouth. They grapple. Jon surges violently back against the sailor’s hold, clawing at the hand covering his face. But the sailor is taller and stronger, toughened from a lifetime of hauling sails and pulling oars. Jon is slammed facefirst into the wall of the hull. Stars streak his vision. Against his back, the sailor's body crushes him. He cannot draw a proper breath. Again, he struggles, jerking and thrashing, tries to throw his attacker off, but it is for naught. He is outmatched. 

Warm breath fans over his neck and face as the sailor chuckles and noses against Jon’s hair.

Another arm comes around his body, groping at Jon’s hip, his belt. Trapping his arm. This cannot be happening. Jon’s arm is pinned to his side. He cannot wrench it free.

"Think you get to walk about this ship like a man after spreading your legs like a whore?" the sailor hisses in his ear.

Jon tries to shout, but his voice is smothered by the hand on his mouth. Splinters of wood dig against his cheek.

“Oi, what is it? ‘Fraid the captain won’t wanna mount you no more once I get my hands on you? May be right. Mayhaps he’ll cast you out once you go back to him used and weeping. Leave you to us.”

But his hands _are_ on Jon. Big and rough and dirty. Caked in salt and grime. They’re grabbing at his neck, his mouth, his clothes. 

Again, Jon thrashes to wrench his arm free. He cannot.

The sailor’s hand fiddles with Jon’s leather belt, trying to undo the knot. The satchel on it rustles. Jon’s purse, his gloves, his dagger. His dagger. The one that Yara Greyjoy gave him. 

Jon struggles anew, trying to pull his pinned arm up, trying to reach the dagger on his hip. He growls against the hand over his mouth, squirms and thrashes, kicks against the hull, anything to dislodge the man’s grip. But the sailor holds him fast, shoves him forward against the wall of the hull again. Jon's head rings at the impact. Pressed against the planks, Jon can hardly breathe.

“You gonna fight me boy, are you?” spits the sailor. “Greenlander whore to a false captain? Give me a good struggle then. I'll have you broken in all the sooner.” 

Reaching, straining, Jon’s fingers just touch the hilt of the dagger on his hip. Almost. _Nearly._

With a grunt, the sailor readjusts his grip, and Jon’s pinned hand closes around the hilt. He draws — rips the knife free from its scabbard. It catches, jolts. The blade snags on something. The bones of a hand. The sailor yelps in pain and leaps off of him, his back colliding with the stacked barrels in the hold. He throws his hand out and Jon’s blade comes free with a gush of blood.

Jon staggers, coughing. The blood stuns him, the screaming moreso. It's so loud below deck. The blade of his knife is shining red, fresh-drawn blood dripping over the hilt down his clenched palm. Newly free, Jon finds he still cannot draw a full breath. 

Doubled over, clasping his hand to his chest, the sailor curses and stumbles. 

For an instant, frozen, dagger clenched in his fist, Jon means to run him through. Stab him straight through the eye. A fountain of rage pours down his arm, into his hand, into the blade itself. His jaw throbs where he clenches it. But he hesitates, shocked, his body still not fully in his own command. And before he can master himself, his attacker retreats, scurrying as fast as he can down the narrow ship’s corridor. The commotion echoes in the tight quarters below deck. A bloody handprint is left streaked on the hull beams.

Gone is his assailant. And just as suddenly, the will for violence drains from his chest. In its place a vacant, empty fear. Jon resheaths his dagger without wiping it clean. 

Turning, he too flees. He cannot get to the captain’s cabin fast enough. 

Thankfully, the cabin is empty. Jon latches the door shut, the heavy iron sinking closed with a thunk. His legs tremble. Jon washes the blood from his hands in their wash basin. Washes his face and neck where he can still feel the sailors hands on him. The water quickly becomes rusty and clouded. His hands shake and ripple in it. There is still blood under his nails. Blood stains the sleeves of his tunic, and so Jon scrubs the sleeve pink in the water. 

No one had seen, no witness. No one to speak in his defense. What will they think when they demand Jon explain himself for drawing ironborn blood? The man will surely lie, say Jon attacked him unprovoked. _Greenlander whore to a false captain._ Is that what Theon is to these men? A false captain? 

Are they coming for him now? Is that sailor gathering allies to exact revenge? 

No, Jon tells himself, no that would be mad. It would be munity.

Still, Jon strains to hear through the door, trying to detect stomping footsteps. Every creak and moan of the ship could signal approaching attackers, but nothing ever comes.

Up on deck, Theon will be surveying the men. Reminiscing with Dagmer. Manning the whipstaff, perhaps. Maybe just above Jon's head. Free and among his people, at last. Jon cannot go and make a scene before them.

Finally, his heart slows. After minutes. Or hours. Jon cannot tell in the little cabin.

The tremble leaves his hands. Nervy, coltish, he forces a deep breath into his chest. With a cry of frustration, Jon slams his fist against the wood door.

Ringing silence and sore knuckles are the only response. 

Futility is like a poison. Again he is a child without power or say. It seems to be his lot.

Sometime later, Wex returns. The bell on deck has rung, and the men are changing shifts. The boy gives Jon a little bow of his head as he enters the cabin. He replaces some belongings into the sea chest—maps in hide rolls and fresh flagon of wine—before retrieving two silver goblets and filling one with ale for Jon.

The boy offers it to him.

“Thank you, Wex,” he accepts, and downs it.

Wex grins widely at him. He finishes polishing the brass in the cabin before he points to the wash basin, mimes hefting it upward. 

Jon nods and permits him to leave to fetch new water. 

When he returns, Wex knocks on the doorframe to announce his presence. Distantly, Jon wonders if Wex has overheard anything. The men talk around him. Because he had no voice himself, they treat him as if he weren't there. 

Clearing his throat, Jon asks, “Is Theon still — will the captain be finished soon?”

Wex nods. He points upward and twirls his finger in a tight circle. He makes that gesture frequently, Jon has guessed it means something along the lines of surveying the deck.

“When… when the captain comes in,” Jon says, “you'll be dismissed. I'll need to speak to him. Alone.”

Wex’s eyes widen a bit, and he presses a finger to his lips with a smirk. Jon returns it.

“No, I trust your silence, Wex. But it’s… it’s private, is all." 

Wex nods, his smile vanishes. 

“It’s nothing, truly. Don’t let it worry you.”

Theon is right: the boy is clever. He sees and hears much, mostly what goes unsaid. Does he already know? Had Wex run into the sailor who attacked him, his hand maimed and bleeding? 

But Wex only sets about cleaning the goblets and fetching new candles.

It must be late afternoon when the door opens again. Theon strolls into the cabin, his uncut hair tangled by the sea wind. He sees Jon and smiles, but it fades as Wex rushes past him out of the cabin.

“Where’s he off to?” Theon asks, watching after him. 

Jon stands. “I asked for a moment alone. I wasn’t sure if… Perhaps you already know, but if not I needed to warn you.”

Theon turns back to look at him, bewildered. “Warn me? What's happened?” 

So he doesn’t know. Jon’s heart twists in his chest.

More than frightened, Jon is now humiliated, infuriated. “I’ve — I fear I've injured one of your crewmen.”

“What’re you on about?”

"It was in defense of myself. He — he grabbed me, and I just — I…”

“Grabbed you?” He strides to Jon and grips him by the shoulder. “What’s happened? Who grabbed you?”

Taking a deep breath, Jon tries again. "There was a sailor — down in the hold, toward the galley this morning. He… I don’t know his name, but he… he grabbed me. Wouldn’t let me go. He was too strong. And so I — I cut his hand…”

Theon’s eyes darken. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know him, honest. He had been working the mast when we set sail from Ten Towers, but I know not his name. He didn’t… he didn’t hurt me. I’m not hurt. Only — only shaken, that’s all. He just… he only grabbed me. Tried to… said you wouldn’t want me anymore if I — if he had me.”

“ _What?_ ”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Jon wraps his arms around Theon’s neck and buries his face in his shoulder. It is like clinging to a marble statue.

“I’m alright, I promise you. I drew a knife when he tried to… undress me. Managed to strike him.”

“Tell me his name."

"I don't know his name, I swear it. I would tell you if I knew. He's thin, weathered. Has dark eyes. He'll be bleeding from his hand. Might be missing a finger. It felt — it felt solid, what I hit."

“I’ll have his fucking head,” Theon snarls. Suddenly, he is shaking. "I’ll slit his damned throat. Lash his body to the bowsprit. This has been his last night alive.”

“No, no — Theon, don’t.” Theon releases him, but Jon is quick to grab hold of his arm. “Theon, _no._ You mustn't. Listen to me.”

Theon rips his arm away. “He cannot be allowed mercy for this!”

“He must be,” Jon insists, taking hold of his wrist again. “You cannot value a foreign bastard harlot above the lives of your own men.”

“That is _not_ what you are,” Theon insists. 

Jon reaches to touch his cheek. Theon jerks his face away, but Jon only tisks and holds his chin firm.

“It is, Theon.” It is bitter to say, but he must make Theon see. “To these men, that is all that I am. All I ever will be. I do not ask for more than that. I am a guest in their lands and I am used to other men’s scorn. I did not need their love. But you do. Please, you must not act recklessly in this. Not so soon after you have been restored. What of when word reaches your sister?"

"I _don't care_ what my sister wants," Theon seethes. "Fuck her and fuck the Seastone Chair. I'll not cower from her, not over this. A man has tried to harm what’s mine! A vassal has spit on our house and name. She would expect me to punish those who wrong us, wrong our house. We are _ironborn_. The Greyjoys of Pyke. Men do not suffer to take what is ours."

When Jon swipes at Theon’s cheek again with his thumb, Theon allows it. His hand cups the back of Theon’s neck, and Theon rests his head against Jon’s shoulder with a sigh.

“I swore to you,” Theon says, “I _swore_ to you, it would never happen again. And now my own — my own crewman, on _my_ ship… he’s meant to be under _my_ command. He mocks me with the act. Spits on my family name. What sort of captain am I if I let him live after this? After what he’s done to you?”

“A shrewd one,” Jon answers, “one that weighs the risks of showing undue favour. One that knows the value in keeping his men loyal.”

“Your compassion is wasted on them.”

“It is not _compassion_ , Theon!” shouts, Jon, shaking him. “You think I want this? To be a laughing stock aboard this ship? To know these men who loathe me roam the decks? I hate this! Were I free to, I would find him myself and run him through.”

“Then why not let me do it?”

“Because I fear for you!” Jon implores. “For you, and your station, and your men’s loyalties.”

“You would let them disgrace you out of fear?”

“I would. For you, I would.”

Theon does not expect him to admit it. Shocked, he only stares, aghast. 

Years on, Jon still cannot make him understand how to bear the contempt of men with grace.

“Is it true command to simply butcher those you hate?” asks Jon, more gently. “I think not. That is the way to make enemies, not friends, and we are in sore need of friends. The man has done no lasting harm to me. Not as I caused him”— At that, Theon snorts, proud —“I defended myself capably. If you execute him for this, the other crewmen will remember it. They will talk. Your sister will learn of it. Word will travel by sail all throughout the Iron Islands until there’s not a man, woman or child who does not know that you had an ironborn crewman put to death on your first voyage. Put to death because your _bastard lover_ demanded it. And how will that seem to your countrymen? They will say you favour me over your own people. That I make your decisions. It is not worth it. Not when your position is so newly-gained.”

“Your father would. Your father would have killed any man who put hands on his children.”

“My father is loved and adored by his people. He is the son of the Kings of Winter. Avenged his own father’s murder by smashing the dynasty that forced the North to bend the knee. You are a lost prince, Theon. Raised in a foreign land, by foreign masters. Newly restored and untested. They are watching you, all of them, to see what you'll do. They are testing you. To see if you are trustworthy. Dagmer, your sister, the other captains. Your loyalty is in doubt. None would ever doubt my father's loyalties if he slew a northman in retribution. It is not the same for you."

It isn't fair. And Theon almost says so; Jon can see him fight to swallow back the petulant whine. That is an impulse Jon knows firsthand, the childish impulse to shout down every personal slight, every minor injustice.

"But Father is not here," Jon continues, "and it is not his decision to make. It is yours, Theon. And the consequence of it will be yours to bear. You must not do it. Not in my name. Be lenient. We have given up so much for this. I could not stand to be the reason you were deposed in their opinion."

Jon's hands slide from Theon's neck, over his clothes, down his arms, taking both Theon's hands in his own. He ducks his head, searching out Theon's gaze.

In stubborn refusal, Theon shuts his eyes tight. Arguing in his own mind.

"Is it still not a mistake?" he asks after a moment. "It is not folly to be here? You still think it was the right thing? To come to Pyke? To leave our lives of quiet obscurity in search of… of whatever foolish thing we thought we'd find in the Iron Islands? After it has put us… put you in such danger. You still think it was wise? Have we not doomed ourselves?"

" _Doomed_?" Jon repeats with a little gentle mockery. "No, I think not. It's not as grave as that. We simply must be… prudent."

More quiet for a moment before Theon exhales hard through his nose. "So then what is to be done with him?"

"Hmm?"

"With the fucking coward who touched you." Theon squeezes Jon's fingers in his own. "I might not take his head for this but he must be held to account _somehow_. If the ironborn would scorn me for killing him, they will think me a craven if he goes unpunished."

“I drew blood with your sister’s blade,” Jon reminds. “Hit bone. He will never use his hands again without thinking on what that grope has cost him. Is that not punishment enough?”

“No,” Theon growls, “it isn’t.”

Jon smiles. He leans forward to kiss him, but Theon pulls away, scowling. 

Fondly, Jon rolls his eyes. “Aye, it will have to be. Please, for me, let that be enough. Let me bear their contempt instead. I am strong. I can take it.”

Theon seems to consider something, then nods. “Alright. Fine. For you, I’ll let that be enough. Only for you. But whoever the man is who has done this to you… he shall learn that. He will know. I want _every man aboard this ship_ to know that it is by your whim that he is spared. You are a man, just as much of any of them, and they shall be reminded. You are my guest and they will afford you due respect. They cannot touch you.”

"Must I?"

"Yes. If you were any other man aboard this ship I would judge the same." Theon draws a breath, calming his fury. "You have been wronged in my care, and I would allow any other man his justice."

Jon does not want to see that man again. He wants to put his knife through him. 

Theon stands back, wipes a hand over his face, composes himself. Jon watches him flex his hands in his black shagreen glove.

“His fate is yours to decide. I gave you my word." Theon dons his oilcloth cloak and his sword belt. "Come. Let's go.”

Taking Jon by the elbow, he pushes the cabin door open right into Wex, who had quite possibly just had his ear pressed to the door. 

“Wex! Get up! Gather the men. Every last one. Find Dagmer, too. Have him meet on the main deck. If you see a man bleeding from his hand, bring him to me at once.”

Wex’s eyes dart to Jon before he departs. 

Theon steps out, ducking beneath the low threshold ceiling. Hesitating for a moment, Jon follows after him. 

The space below decks is like a cavern to Jon now, dark and low and imposing, lit only by yellow lamplight. A den of some beast. A cravase under a glacier. The ship is so small, really, but the huge ribs of the hull, the beams of the frame, it seems to recede forever toward the darkened bow. And around them, Jon knows, is the sea. Only the endless, endless grey sea. Just on the other side of these timbers that seem so firm, nothing but the great fathomless depths for miles and miles below. They are outnumbered on their little ship, and there is nowhere to run, should the men turn on them. 

Where once Jon had felt so safe, safer than he ever had, now appears more and more like a tomb. 

They ascend the ladder to the main deck. The anemic sun behind the slate grey clouds beams weakly overhead. Coming from below deck, though, the light is enough to stun Jon. He shields his eyes with his arm as he hauls himself on deck. The wind is strong, tossing his hair and battering his ears. So much colder up here than in their little cabin. 

The wind is a boon for the crew though; the sail is lowered. No teams man the oars. Instead they occupy the rare break in small groups around the deck, lounging, throwing dice, and telling tales. Or they had been, but Wex is rounding them up. He scurries about, clapping his hands to get a group’s attention and pointing them toward the quarterdeck.

The crew curse and swat at him, but Wex is quick and goes unstruck about his task. The sailors are gathering, though, partly out of curiosity. A few lean against the mast, some crouch on the deck. 

He and Theon climb the short stair to the quarterdeck, and Jon can feel all eyes on his back. He’s never stood before the crew like this, the object of their total focus, their scrutiny. Alongside their captain. Jon swallows and exhales, breath quivering in his chest. Calling upon whatever bravery he possesses, he turns to the railing to face them all.

Slouching against the gunwale among the men, his attacker is stone still, holding his left hand wrapped in his shirt.

“That — that man there,” Jon indicates with a nod to Theon, “with the bandage around his left hand. That was him.”

Theon inclines his head, scanning the gathered men. He bangs his hand on the rail to quiet them.

“I understand the hour is unusual,” he says in a booming voice. “No matter, I promise you. This will be quick.”

The crew all glance at one another. Dagmer is in the crowd, white eyebrows scowling, his cleaved lips pursed. He does not interrupt. 

“Aelfon Codd, step forward,” commands Theon.

All heads turn to find him in the crowd. Codd is hesitant, holding his wrapped hand to his chest as he steps forward from the assembled crew. The dirty cloth is stained red.

“Captain,” he returns sharply. He looks past Theon, to Jon standing behind him. His eyes icy.

"Have I treated you unfairly, Codd?" Theon asks in his most acerbic voice.

"Beg pardon, captain?"

"Are you dissatisfied in my service? Have you found it ill-suited to your liking?"

"Not my place to say, captain."

"Your captain is asking you to say. Tell me, Codd, have I been cruel, or unfair? Asked too much? Overworked you?"

The crew murmur. Dagmer watches Theon as though he were raving.

"No, captain," Codd answers at last.

"Then why have you tried to rob me, Aelfon Codd?"

A flicker of surprise sweeps over the deck.

“I have been told that you have taken a hand to my guest,” Theon barks venomously, “that you threatened further harm, so that he was forced to take a knife to you in order to escape you. Do you deny it?”

Several men of the crew glance at Aelfon with unreadable expressions. Dagmer looks upon him with naked disdain.

Defiant, Aelfon spits on the deck. “Do no good to deny it, would it, _captain?_ ”

Jon winces, but to his credit, Theon does not. “Not if it is true,” he calls, daring. “Is it?”

The wind whips Aelfon’s hair about his face. He does not answer, but he looks at Jon once more, plainly furious. 

Theon is not finished speaking. “Show me your hand, Codd. Let us all see what your audacity wrought.” 

Instead of showing his hand, Aelfon instead admits, “I’ll be losin' the last two fingers, Captain. The little bastard’s blade is kept well sharp.” 

“I should have what is left of your hands for what you’ve dared,” Theon yells, a threatening snarl over the snapping wind, “you know that much. I have paid the iron price for Jon Snow once before, and I’ll not fear to do so again. Would you put my words to the test?”

Aelfon does not blink. His mouth twists into a sneer, but he shakes his head.

“But, as it is Jon Snow you have wronged, it shall be Jon Snow to mete your punishment. Here, in sight of gods and men, you will answer to him for your actions,” Theon makes sure the crew can all hear him from where they stand on the deck below. This is not just for Aelfon Codd to know. Jon is laid bare before them. 

Tilting his head, Theon addresses the crew gathered below him, “Tell him, Jon.”

Jon does not let himself wilt. He faces the crewmen. First he finds Wex, watching near the front of the crowd, the way he’s shifting from one foot to the other. It calms him to see a friendly face, and he finds he can at last meet Aelfon Codd’s eyes, his gaze firm.

“For your crime against me and against your captain…” Jon clears his throat again, voice growing firm. “I deem the loss of your fingers to be suitable reparation. You lost them fairly, and I’ll not take more unfairly.”

Aelfon Codd’s mangled hand is soaking red through its bandages. The man says nothing, only fumes amongst his fellow crewmen. 

A scowl darkens Theon’s face. “You shall thank Jon for his mercy, Codd.”

“Captain —”

“ _Theon —_ ” Jon hisses under his breath.

Theon ignores them both. “Thank him, Codd. For your honour and your life. He has shown you far more grace than you deserve.”

For a long moment, there is silence. Wind rustles over the deck, snaps the sail. The rest of the men on deck all shuffle and watch Codd, awaiting his reply.

“Thank you, Jon Snow,” Aelfon spits at last, “for your mercy.”

“Aye,” Jon snaps uncomfortably, waving him away, “remember it well.”

Aelfon Codd snarls, spits on the deck. Jon’s hands are shaking, and he hides them behind his back.

“You’re dismissed, the lot of you,” Theon barks sharply, “back to your taks. Let this be a lesson on how my guests are to be treated upon my ship. Slow learners have no place amongst my crew. Pardon will not be granted a second time.”

A few sailors disperse quickly, but Dagmer rushes the quarterdeck, heaving himself up the stairs before Theon can lead Jon away.

“You,” Dagmer says, pointing at Theon as he rights himself at the steps of the quarterdeck. “What — what was that? What have you done, boy?”

Theon’s jaw tenses as he takes a hold of Jon’s arm. “What have _I_ done? Fucking Codd should be thanking the gods I have not taken his head for what he’s done to Jon.”

Dagmer looks Jon over passively. “The boy is still whole, is he not?”

“Do not diminish this. Jon Snow belongs to _me._ And you heard what Codd had done. What he _tried_.” 

Something silent passes between Dagmer and Theon then. Jon does not know what, but feels like an intruder and looks away. 

After a moment’s pause, Dagmer clicks his tongue, an odd sound from his mangled mouth. “Humiliating Codd before the crew will not earn you his loyalty."

"He humiliates himself! And I do not want his loyalty. Only his obedience."

"It will bring nothing but trouble and further vengeance. The boy is unharmed, you should —”

“Do not dare tell me what I should do, old man,” Theon snarls, “I am your damned _captain._ ”

Dagmer’s eyes widen. He licks his teeth contemplatively, tongue sickly visible through the split in his lips. “Aye, fine then. Be it on your head,” he resigns. He turns his split face to Jon. “Boy. You alright?”

Looking away from his face, Jon only nods.

Dagmer looks back at Theon. “Caution, _captain_. A man cannot lead men who despise him. He’ll soon find himself without a man to follow him.”

Theon does not answer, wheeling around and pulling Jon away by the arm. They stomp down the steep steps to the deck and slink beneath the hatch of the quarterdeck.

When they make it to their cabin, Theon is shaking. 

Shamed, Jon looks over his shoulder as if Dagmer has followed them. “Dagmer — Dagmer, he… he is right, Theon, you can’t let —”

“Shut up. Shut up with that, it doesn’t matter.”

“Theon —”

“Look at me,” Theon interrupts fiercely, “look at me. Do not lie to me, now. Are you alright? Truly?”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Jon insists. “He drew no weapon.”

Theon is shaking his head before Jon finishes. “I know you’re unharmed. But are — are you… alright?”

It reminds Jon of when Theon had pressed against him in a drafty inn room at the village at the fork, asking Jon if he was frightened of him. 

"You are strong, I know, but I can take care of you. I will defend you from them. Do you understand? That — that coward will not touch you again. None of them will. I’ve seen to it. You hear me?”

“Please, I am fine.”

“I am meant to protect you. I’m — I swore that I would and I keep…”

“I don’t need a protector.”

“Yes you _do!_ ”

There is hysteria in Theon’s voice. Jon regrets saying it.

“Come now, don’t be upset. You have enough worries without minding me —”

“Stop it,” Theon barks. “Stop it. Stop telling me not to mind you. Gods, you should have been safe here, in my lands, with my people. Safer here at least than on Braavosi canals. Or the woods full of thieves. I should — should never have let this happen.”

“I do not hold you accountable at all." 

Theon nods, exhales. He reaches for Jon, grips his hands tightly.

“You’re so strong, Jon, do you know that?” He brings Jon’s hands to his lips, kisses them. “I envy you at times.” 

Jon has never felt enviable, least of all compared to Theon. Certainly he does not feel strong. But in an effort to make Theon smile, Jon chuckles and offers, “All my life, you only ever used to complain about how useless I was.”

It’s enough, and Theon lets out a wet scoff and a watery smile. “Well, I was a liar, as I’ve admitted. I shall tell you every day from now on.” He gives Jon a soft kiss on his forehead. “Come to bed with me. Let us put this day to an end."

He lets Theon lead him into their bunk. They help one another to undress and slip beneath their quilts. Theon winds his arms around Jon, holding him close, and rests his head upon his shoulder. Jon stares up at the beams of their cabin, absently touches Theon’s hair. After a moment, Theon reaches up to take Jon’s free hand from his side and holds it close against his own chest. His heart flutters against Jon’s knuckles.

After a time, Theon’s warbling voice barely breaks the silence. “Jon?”

“Yes?”

Silence, again. Jon feels him shift in their bed. Finally, Theon whispers, "Nothing could ever make me turn you away. You understand?”

It had never occurred to Jon that he might. Even as he’d heard it from Aelfon’s mouth, even as he recounted it to Theon, the words had almost been laughable, if not for the rest. “I know that, Theon. It was never a thought.”

A soft gust of breath against Jon’s cheek. A blind little kiss just below his eye. Something pulls at Jon’s navel, an odd itch to repeat it back to Theon, but before he can open his mouth, he dismisses it. Theon would only scoff to hear it. 

Instead, he squeezes Theon’s hand and repeats gently, “I know it.”

Before long, rocking atop the sea, Theon’s soft breath goes even against Jon’s chest.


	10. Theon

On the sixth day of sailing they catch sight of the northern mainland. Off the bow, far in the misty distance, a sliver of dark land crests the curvature of the horizon. Theon hates every minute of it. He hates it as the grey curtains of mist part over Blazewater Bay and reveal the low coast. Hates it as the flat, reedy lowlands of the rills span before them. Hates it as the scent of loam and pine reaches their deck on the wind. Hates it. Hates it.

They sail up the wide river that will bring them to Torrhen’s Square. The land is flat. Where the river meets the sea is a vast tidal estuary; broad, flat saltmarshes, dotted with stunned shore pine and thick mats of cordgrass. Smooth sand the colour of slate is revealed on the low tide. The crewmen furl the sails and navigate up the wide, brown mouth of the river by oar. 

Villagers dig barefoot for clams in the estuary mud. They stop and watch as the ship rows past. Their solemn northern gazes observe in silence. Theon turns away from them. The last time an ironborn ship landed in the rills, well, these people would remember it better than he.

Theon hates it. Hates every hour, every minute of being in the North. Chill winds slice under his clothes. The air tastes sour. His mood darkens as they slip up the river. 

As they sail further inland, Jon goes silent. Each day from Pyke he has grown quieter and quieter until at times it feels that whole days pass where Jon doesn’t say a word. Even by his usual quiet nature, it is disturbing to Theon. Jon suddenly seems so distant to him. Retreated into his own inner world once again, like he would as a child in Winterfell. It’s as though the North itself can wall off Jon’s mind from him.

Theon hates it.

After Codd’s attack, Theon does not let Jon wander the ship without an escort again. The only one he trusts with it other than himself is Wex, who is always armed with his two knives when walking Jon anywhere. The boy is small, and while all the other crewmen seem to mislike the young bastard, his quickness and skill with a blade are known. And though he’s mute, Jon seems to find him good company. For all Jon’s worries after Wex found them abed, the two have grown to be happy companions since Harlaw.

Part of Theon had hope that Jon would object to being led around the ship by his squire. Undeniably, it is demeaning; being minded like a lack-wit or a woman. But Jon brokers no objection at having a child guard him. Perhaps he knows it would be futile to protest.

Sleep is hard to come by for Theon. Every night since hitting the river, dreadful nightmares have been plaguing him. Dreams of terrible things happening to Jon. The exact circumstance changes: sometimes Jon drowns in the sea, sometimes he is swallowed up by the northern forests and is never seen again. But the upsetting dreams are that of his own crewmen taking Jon away.

Escort aside, Jon keeps mostly to the cabin, once they are inland. The upper deck holds no more new and wild sights. Now it is only familiar woodlands of the North to be seen. 

But Theon cannot stand to be confined. His body cannot stay still, pacing about the deck. The crew seem troubled at the sight of him. Even Wex avoids him, staying to the cabin with Jon when he can. 

As day dwindles, the river grows narrower, the reedy banks grow steeper, the terrain denser. Progress is slow. Sails are furled and the waters are navigated by oar, slowly, able to creep along at dusk with a couple men holding lanterns at the bow and shouting directions to avoid shallow rocks and gnarled roots that could run them aground. 

At sundown, Theon hands the deck off to Dagmer and goes below. 

In the captain’s cabin, he finds both Jon and Wex seated on the same side of his desk with a roll of parchment spread before them. Jon is indicating something with a quill pen to Wex. Wex is frowning in consternation.

“This here is your name,” Jon is saying. He bends close to Wex and points to each letter with the tip of his quill. “W—E—X. See that? Each letter indicates a sound. And together they make your name. Here, you try and write it.”

Jon hands the quill over to Wex. The boy fumbles to hold the delicate instrument. Dipping the nib into the inkwell, he begins his attempt. With a shaky hand and too much ink on his pen, he makes a valiant effort, but his letters are lopsided and wobbly. Halfway through his crooked “E”, Wex grunts and furiously scribbles out his attempt. He tosses the quill down and folds his arms, scowling.

Theon might have smacked him for that outburst, but Jon, ever patient, takes up the quill and dips it back into the inkwell. “It’s tricky at first, I know, but it’s like training with a sword or a lance. Or a knife, I suppose. It needs practice. You just have to train your muscles to the movements. There is no other way to master it.”

“You shouldn’t waste the time to teach him,” Theon interrupts at last, “he’s never going to be a learned man.”

“If he’s going to be your squire he should at least know his letters,” responds Jon. Upon seeing his captain, Wex jolts to stand and tend to him, but Jon sits him back down with a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “A squire should be able to read his lord’s correspondence and take dictation.”

“If he be trustworthy,” grumbles Theon. “This wretch will just as likely sell my secrets to my enemies for watered-down ale.”

“And what sort of mortal secrets do you keep, Lord Greyjoy, that us lowly bastards must never be privy to?”

Theon glances at Jon unamused. Wex throws a hand over his mouth to keep in a scandalized raspy laugh. 

Turning back to a blank spot on the parchment, Jon writes his own name in simple block letters.

“See here?” he shows Wex. “This is my name. Jon.” He indicates each letter again. “J—O—N. Three letters, like yours. But the sounds are each different, so no letters are the same between your name and mine, see? But Theon’s name rhymes with mine.” Jon write’s Theon’s name beneath his own. “It is because our names end with the same two letters, so they end with the same sound. O—N. You see? Here, try and write your own name again.”

At Jon’s insistence, Wex takes the quill again and attempts to scratch his name into the parchment with far too much force. But this time, he completes his three wobbly letters.

“Well done,” commends Jon.

Wex glances between him and Theon, his wide mouth breaking into a grin.

“Little louse,” gripes Theon, finally deigning to remove his own cloak. “Well, lesson’s over. Go fetch supper for Jon and I, Wex.”

This time, Jon does let Wex get up, but not before handing him the dry quill pen. “Practice your letters when you have time. Just the movements, without ink even, if you have to. In your hammock, even on your own hand. You’ll be able to write your name perfectly by the time I return from Winterfell.”

Wex accepts the quill with a little awkward bow, blushing. Theon scowls at him as he flees the cabin.

“You’re far too indulgent of him,” he tells Jon after the cabin door is shut.

“Hardly,” Jon waves off, “he’s just a boy. A kind hand won’t turn him into a layabout. He has been ignored and discounted for most of his short life. If you are good to him he will love you for it. You see how eager he is to be recognized. Better to foster devotion than resentment in those who serve you.”

Jon gets up and begins to clear the inkwell and parchments from Theon’s desk. His dark hair is unbound, hanging in loose curls about his ears, thick and glossy. Gods, Theon loves Jon’s hair.

“It is slow going, but we are taking the river by oar throughout the night,” says Theon when Jon looks up at him. “We will be at Torrhen’s Square with the morning sun.”

Jon sets down the tankard of ale he’s been nursing. “Are there scout ships about?”

“Three skiffs upriver, and whatever more men they have hidden up on the banks onshore watching us.”

“And they’re not calling for my head yet?”

“I’d have sunk their shitheap dinghies to the bottom of the river if they had.”

“I meant from your iron men.”

That is a cruel thing to say. Theon scowls. “They know better than to mention such things.”

Jon seems apologetic, and changes the subject, “So I will reach Torrhen’s Square on the morrow. And from there, ride for Winterfell.”

“Then this is our last night together for some time.”

Jon takes a drink from his ale. “It is.”

“For a long while, it could be.”

“It is not as dire as all that, Theon.”

“He might keep you from me.”

“My father would not play me false. Neither would his vassals or bannermen. He has sworn me safe conduct.”

“Safe conduct to Winterfell, but he still makes no such assurances of your return. You think he will turn you loose again once he has you behind those walls? If you set foot in Winterfell, it is like as not that you’ll not leave again.”

“My father would not do that, Theon.”

“You think not? Greater men would. For seventeen years he kept you in Winterfell, barely ever let you out of his sight. Nobly reared his ill-gotten bastard in the ancient seat of his family. And you repaid your generous lord father by shaming him before his vassals, the king, and before the whole realm. And now that he beckons you back, you leap to answer his call like a whipped dog. You think he wouldn’t keep you there?”

“No, I don’t.”

There is a moment of dark silence. Theon’s voice hardens. “I could keep you here, if I wished it. I only need to say the word, and not a man here would permit you to leave.”

“If you keep me from Winterfell, I will never forgive you.”

Immediately, Theon is abashed. “I did not mean it.”

“Then do not say it.”

“Forgive me. I worry.”

Asking forgiveness does not set either of them at ease. Theon bristles to do it, even privately, even to Jon. Can Jon not see how plainly the trap before him is set? So eager he is to be loved that he will go to Winterfell willingly, alone and unarmed. All to learn his mother’s name.

What does it matter what the woman’s name was? Would it change anything? Would all his years of sulking and misery at last be justified, if only Jon knew her name?

Why was Theon’s love insufficient to make him happy?

Theon crosses the cabin to him, bends and slips an arm around Jon’s shoulders. Holds him tight. Moves his mouth to Jon’s hair in a gesture that is not quite a kiss.

Theon squeezes his eyes shut. “If your father keeps you from me, it will be war between our houses.”

Jon touches Theon’s arm. “I know.”

“You must come back to me, Jon.”

“I will,” says Jon, quietly.

Theon does not ask, only pulls Jon to their bunk, kneels on the planks between his legs. If this is to be their last night, Theon will not allow Jon to go unpleasured. Opening his laces, Theon takes Jon’s cock in his mouth without a word. He must work him to hardness which, mercifully, he does. Theon could not bear it if Jon did not want him on their final night.

It is quick and quiet. Jon grips Theon’s hair and leans back on his free hand, guiding, watching. As he laps and sucks, Theon returns his gaze with ferocity, proud when Jon can no longer contain his gasps and pants. Jon urges him faster by the hand in Theon’s hair.

Then, it is over. Jon comes with a long, silent gasp. Theon whimpers a bit as his hair is tugged, and swallows.

After, they lie next to one another in their bunk, Theon pressed right to Jon’s side. He traces his fingertips idly up and down Jon’s sleeve.

“Don’t go,” whispers Theon, “don’t leave me.”

“I’m going, Theon. I must.”

Liar. “Must nothing.”

Jon exhales hard through his nose. “Maybe so. But I am still going. I’ve decided.”

Theon knows that. But he had to try one final time.

Sleep evades him. Wex returns some time later with two warm bowls of stew. Theon waves the boy away. In the darkness of their cabin, Jon drifts off to sleep in Theon’s arms, but Theon is wide awake well past midnight. On deck, the bell sounds, and Theon can hear the sailors on watch switch their shifts, scaling the steep steps below decks crawling back into their hammocks.

That night, Theon does something he has not done in years and years. He prays. 

Holding Jon tight to him, Theon closes his eyes. Outside, the night is quiet. No winds stir. No seabirds call. The sea is left behind them. There is only the portentous silence of the North. He presses his hand to Jon’s chest, feeling the gentle thump of his heartbeat against his palm. 

Into the dark cabin Theon murmurs, “Gods, protect him. Watch over him. I have never been a devout man, but that is no fault of him. Spare him your wrath. God of my fathers, grant him your protection as he ventures away from the sea. Gods of the North, watch over your wanderer son, guard him safely through your lands and back to me. Do this, and I will plant a godswood on every isle. I'll raise a sept at Pyke. Every god in every heaven, I beg you, hear me. See him safely back to me.”


	11. Jon

“Oi, Snow, what's ironborn cock taste like? Saltier than usual?”

A round of uproarious laughter goes up among his escort party. Larks scatter from the autumn trees. The mounted Tallhart guard has been lobbing insults and barbs at Jon most of the afternoon. So far, he refuses to deign them with a reaction. 

Instead Jon focuses steadfastly on the road before them, a muddy path over the forest floor dusted with the first autumn leaves and trodden brambles. A party of six guardsmen and two wagons pulled by packhorses pick their way forward. His mount is a stout, shaggy mare, the sort of animal common in the North. She is a sturdy beast, surefooted and calm, and Jon is grateful that he does not need to devote too much care to riding.

He will be sore when they make camp tonight. Sorer on the morrow. Something further for his guard to ridicule. In defiance, Jon straightens his posture, tucks his heel further down in the stirrup.

“How much do ya’ suppose the squid pays the little trollop, then?” 

“Can’t be much. Ironborn ain’t rich, even their fishy lords.”

“Don’t think you’d need to pay ‘im at all, Dennas,” another harps. “The bastard’s no whore, s’what I hear. Likes it too much to ask for coin. Greyjoy has him for free.”

Swallowing, Jon sits up tall as he might and ignores the ugly gurgle of their laughter.

At the head of the party, Benfred Tallhart turns in the saddle and shouts for the guards to quiet down. 

The son of Ser Helman Tallhart is a lad of Theon’s age, twenty years old or thereabouts, tasked with the enviable duty of seeing his liege lord’s son back to him. It is rather apparent that the young Benfred is unimpressed with both his task and his charge. He hardly has spoken to Jon, only calling off the guardsmen when their jeering grows too close to outright slander. It would not do to have Lord Stark’s bastard complaining to his father that a sworn Northern vassal permitted common guardsmen to abuse him on the journey, after all.

Theon has mentioned meeting Benfred Tallhart to Jon before. Mentioned that he is a large and brusque young man who acts brave and bold to hide his impulsive temper. Jon decided not to press the man about the guardsmen's conduct.

Jon and his escort party had set out from Torrhen’s Square that very morning, before the sun had been over the treeline. The _Sea Bitch_ had moored at the small pier of Torrhen’s Square with the dawn. They had been far beyond the head of tide by that point, and waters had been placid as the broad, slow river opened to a glassy lake nestled in the hilly woods. On the shore, the town and keep of Torrhen’s Square, squat and humble, sat nestled in the pine-treed slopes and highlands of the North.

Jon remembers waking to birdsong this morning. Warblers and cardinals had been singing in the distance. It had been a fortnight since he had woken to that, since they set out to sea. 

The memory of this morning fills Jon with a wounding melancholy. In their dark cabin, he had blinked awake slowly, light dappling through the thick glass windows, before he had been overcome with a warm, syrupy melancholy. 

Laying next to him had been Theon, watching him with a quiet smile.

“You did not sleep,” Jon had realized aloud.

Theon hadn’t lied. “No.”

“And are we there?”

“We are landed at the jetty. Dagmer has been meeting with their wharfmen since before dawn. That’s what Wex told me.”

“Wex _told_ you?”

Theon had amended, “Well, I managed to gather as much from his mad gesturing.”

“He does have his ways of making his meaning known.”

The attempt of humour had been wilting and ineffective. Silence of the discomforting sort had wriggled between them. 

After an interminable pause, Theon had murmured miserably, “You must return to me.”

“And I shall. Nothing would keep me from you,” Jon had promised.

And Theon had smiled at that, even if he had thought it a lie, for once not shying from sentimentality. “And I from you. Do not forget that, not ever. No matter what else happens.”

Quickly, Theon had sat up and looked away, hiding the tears welling in his eyes. Jon’s heart had ached at the sight, and he had taken both of Theon’s hands in his own. 

“I must know, Theon. If I let the chance to discover the truth slip me by… I could not live with it. I wish you could see… I wish more than anything that I could make you understand…”

But Jon could not make him understand. After another restless silence, Theon had told him, “I will not be sailing from this shore without you, Jon Snow.”

“That, I know,” Jon had assured him.

“Come back to me, or I will come for you.”

“I shall.”

With the cold morning light breaking through the pine tops, they had disembarked to meet their hosts. 

A small party of guardsmen holding fluttering Tallhart banners had assembled on the docks and at the head of them, Ser Helman Tallhart, Master of Torrhen’s Square, and his firstborn son and heir, the oxen-like Benfred, dressed in the boreal colours of their house. 

The handoff had been agony. Endless of greetings and endless empty words. Jon had barely listened. Not since Winterfell had he and Theon been separated for longer than a day. And now Jon had gone willingly into the custody of the North. 

But Jon had mustered his courage and met them with dignity. 

No longer is he a lord’s bastard, he reminds himself, he is an emissary of the Iron Islands, trusted by his Lord and Lady to represent their interests, and he will conduct himself as such. 

So he has borne it all day. Ser Helman’s dismissive regard. His son Benfred’s contempt for being dealt the role of a bastard’s handler. The outright scorn of his escort party. Jon had restrained his temper, thanked the man Ser Helman for his hospitality, witnessed the ironborn crew accept the guest right. 

Thinking back now, Jon is relieved of that. The crew of the _Sea Bitch_ will be ashore in Torrhen’s Square for more than a fortnight, and while Jon cannot imagine it will pass wholly without incident, he is gladdened to know that the ironborn will be treated fairly and with justice. Part of him is sure that given enough ale, song, and women, the ironborn and the northmen will become fast friends. 

So now, after all day on the road, dressed in ironborn clothes among his fellow northmen, with two carts full of Lady Greyjoy’s gifts rattling down the road beside him, Jon is tired. Tired from the sailing, the riding, and tired from the mockery. 

But Jon’s pride is not so dear a thing to him anymore. He had done away with his pride in betraying his lord father, sleeping on horse blankets like a beggar, lodging in dingy brothels, being the known consort — the known _whore_ — of an ironborn traitor. 

There is much Jon’s pride can endure.

“So he doesn’t do it for coppers, then?” one of the young guardsmen is saying.

“Mayhaps for iron,” says another, tapping one of the ore-laden carts with the butt of his lance, “seems to be all they got on those wretched rocks.”

“Me ma’ used to tell me squids sprinkle iron filings on their meals. Haven’t got much else to eat.”

“Ah, well your ma’ was a daft old cow, it seems." 

“S’true!”

"The maester back home says men got iron in their blood. That's why it turns rusty."

"Don't be daft. Men can’t live on iron.”

“Well this one seems to live on squidling cock.”

Grinding his teeth, a fury wells inside Jon. He urges his horse a little further ahead until the distance drowns them out.

It does not last long. A chorus of snickering catches up with him quickly as the guardsmen ease their horses to fall close behind him. 

One of the men calls out with a mocking tone, “Wait for us, little one! Don’t want to go running about these woods alone once night falls, little thing like you.”

Jon does not bother to outrun them again. After all, they’re not wrong. An escort is not a frivolous courtesy through the untamed North. There are bandits, bears, wildcats, wolves. Never mind the freezing nights. Traveling alone is a danger. The guard is no mere gesture. Jon knows that firsthand. And he and Theon had fled through the wilds at the end of summer, when the land is its warmest and driest. Now, at autumn, the journey is all the harder, damp and cold. A wind stirs in the treetops, raining down dry yellow leaves. Jon cannot help the chill that pulls through him. The men all laugh once again when he shudders against the frosty wind as Jon buries deeper into his seal pelt mantle. 

“Greyjoy fuck all the north outta you then, boy? You cold?” 

“You can stay in my tent, if you’d like, Snow. I'd keep you warm. So long as you’re quiet. I’ll even share my ale with you. Pretty little thing. Shave off that beard and you might as well be a girl.”

“Aye,” the one called Dennas jeers, “no wonder Greyjoy don’t mind stickin’ it in this one. Hidin’ tits under all them borrowed krakens and fish pelts, are you?”

The men all laugh, and Jon keeps his back straight.

“Little Greyjoy stole him, way I heard it,” another guardsman pipes up. “Plucked him right from his bed and took him away at the point of a knife. Had him right in the dirt, and afterwards, the bastard was too ashamed to go back to his father." 

"They stole women in the war, the squids. At least thems that were on the rills. Killed the men, raped the women. Some they left with half-squid bastards to rear up."

"Mayhaps they keep startin' wars 'cause they run out of women, then."

“Every man has a stable of wives on the Islands. The unlucky others need to steal away wives from other men.”

"It's never just women that are raped in war," an older guardsmen reproaches the young bucks, "pray that you never find out what becomes of men who are captured in battle, lad."

"I'd make the foul island savages kill me first."

"You might. But most men want to live. It might surprise you youngsters, what a man will endure."

“Why would they? They can’t breed with men.”

The elder guardsmen scoffs and their youthful naivety, scratching and the clothing beneath his pauldron. “Rape’s not for breeding. Never is.”

“I hear the ironborn lay down with seals and birth skinchanger children. They look like seals, but they can slip off their pelts and live as men do. If you find a skinchangers pelt, she becomes your wife.”

“More like they fuck the seals when they run out of women. Gods be good, a whole kingdom of brutish rapers. Stealing what better men build. Wonder the king didn’t push them all into the sea the last time they spilled off their rocks.”

“Kingdom, right. Now they choose their lord, though. Did you know that? Every man gets a say!”

“Ha! And look what that brought? Give every backwater raper a choice and they choose a woman to rule them! Mad folk.”

“They are _not,_ ” Jon snarls.

He halts his mare. Benfred follows, glancing back at his men with reproach until they do the same. His mount whinnies, breath steaming the air. The tall forest quiets as the carts roll and creak to a halt. Jon rounds his horse, staring the lot of them down with a heart of fury. They may jeer about him all they like, but he’ll not hear them sully the Greyjoy name in his presence.

“Such treatment of your liege lord’s friends will reflect poorly upon your father's house, Lord Benfred,” warns Jon in a steely voice. “My lord father and Lady Greyjoy have made common cause. I would be saddened to inform Lord Stark of this poor treatment by fellow northmen upon the road.”

With that, at least, Lord Benfred reluctantly complies. He shouts over his shoulder, “Speak lightly of the ironborn, lads. That ore you mock will be swords in your hands, come winter.”

The guardsmen grumble and glare, but they refrain from further jeering for the day.

That night, Jon sleeps with the dagger Yara Greyjoy had gifted him clutched in his hand. In his shared tent with Benfred Tallhart, Jon grips the hilt of his knife, stowed beneath his rolled up cloak. Outside in the woods, a fire burns, and the two men on watch whisper to each other. Their shadows flicker and jump along the canvas tent, but Jon cannot hear what they say no matter how he strains.

Despite his vigilance, he eventually succumbs to sleep, knife still held tight in his hand.

From that first day they continue on with an uneasy peace. The guardsmen keep their disdain quiet and Jon does not make their duty more difficult than need be. 

The journey overland is not long. After a few days on the road, their little party climbs out of the river valley to the high moors. The dense, silent forests thin and pare back until the highlands are released, sprawling between cospes and glens. It has been grueling, and Jon has not had a decent rest since aboard the _Sea Bitch._

But the days become five, and the surrounding lands are beginning to recall something to Jon. A familiarity. One tree, one hedge, one stone does not look particularly distinct from every other, but their collective shapes and shadows are tripping some dormant buried memory. As the party urges their mounts onward it starts to become clear that this is a trek he has made before. Their small deer trail path joins with the King’s Road, and suddenly Jon knows where they are.

He has ridden these trails before. Knows these woods. The heather, the sedges, the rivers and dells. The mist that collects low in the morning and the crows that flock in the evening. The herds of elk that dot the far off hillsides. The sweet earthy scent of cedar soaked from the rain.

These are the things that comprise Jon’s earliest memories. All the glorious days of boyhood. Before the world grew so messy and treacherous. When wonder had been a leisurely pursuit. 

They are close. Incredibly close. Mere hours from the castle, by now. 

Abruptly, Jon halts his mount on the path. 

This is the closest he has been to home in nearly two years, and now, for the first time, he is terrified.

Because it is not home anymore. It hasn’t been for so long that the chill in the air feels foreign, by now. Blinking back sudden tears in his eyes, Jon takes a steadying breath.

“What’s the matter with you, then?” one of the Tallhart guardsmen asks gruffly. His horse is so close to Jon’s that it stomps in frustration and throws its head back. “Come on, bastard, the quicker you move the quicker this is done with.”

The guardsman rides on. With another long sigh, Jon follows suit. He can do nothing but face it now. 

But the fear does not abate. Fear that Theon is right, that it is all a trap, fear that he will reach his home only to see it is no longer his home at all, that perhaps all the Starks have turned against him. Robb. Arya. Bran. Perhaps they are all repulsed by him now, as their mother is.

And perhaps the true terror is not in believing this is a trap. Perhaps Theon is right in another way, a way Jon had insisted he was not. 

Perhaps he will not want to leave.

The sun drags across the sky, beginning its short winter descent, and Jon can just see the far off silhouette of Winterfell amidst the mist of the moor. The hour has grown late, and the sun is not as bright and does not last as long, anymore. But as their tired horses creep ever closer, Jon sees the castle as clearly as he had in his dreams.

Somehow, Jon had expected it to be so different. But Winterfell sits upon the green moor, same as it ever was. An ancient granite behemoth.

A scout gallops ahead to announce their arrival. 

Their wagons turn off the King’s Road. Jon draws his horse alongside Benfred’s at the head of the party. He is the honoured guest. He ought to lead his delegation rightfully.

A low, singing horn rings from the top of Winterfell’s walls, heralding their approach. Little darkened figures scramble between the merlons of the gatehouses. The huge oaken doors are opened. With a rumbling creak of iron that can be heard across the fields, the portcullis is slowly raised and the passage beneath the wall illuminates.

Tears spring to Jon’s eyes, so sudden it is nearly painful. His temples throb at the sudden swell of emotion. He blinks them away, attributing them to the cold air.

The drum towers of Winterfell grow and grow as the party draws closer, lengthening like shadows in the dusk. From the open gate a grand retinue emerges. The mounted Stark guard in their matching dress armour: leather brigandine beneath surcoats emblazoned with the Stark direwolf and grey woolen cloaks. A few hold Stark banderoles aloft on standards. In case their guests forgot where to they had come, Jon imagines.

Flanking the gate with their formation, the guardsmen move aside. From beneath the portcullis, two more men emerge on horseback. Lord Stark and just behind, Robb. 

His father is just a distant figure on horseback, but Jon’s heart recognizes him in an instant. The proud line of his head. His straight back and steady mastery of his mount. At the head of the welcome party, Lord Stark halts and awaits the coming guests. 

Jon can feel his father’s eyes on his half a mile away. He looks down at the reins.

As his host draws closer to the gate, Jon’s racing heart threatens to burst. He had not expected Robb to be mounted beside his father, eyes serious and his mouth turned down. Despite having his mother’s soft features, he looks every bit like their father now, stern and grim. 

Despite his somber, lordly appearance, Robb looks no different than the night Jon fled, still the young boy who held them both as they said their farewells, even with his jaw drawn as tense as it is. But when Jon finally lets himself look upon his father, Lord Stark seems near a decade older, threads of grey in his beard as he looks at Jon with tired eyes.

At last, they come before the gate beneath the walls festooned with direwolf banners. The horses huff and winny in the quiet. The carts creak to a halt. A few crows caw from the tops of the walls.

Jon steps down from his horse. His legs throb. He hesitates, busying himself with the reins of his mare as his escort all step down from their mounts as well. Tallhart men carrying sentinel banners flank the wings of their party. Neither Robb nor Lord Stark have spoken a word, and Jon fears it must be him to break the silence. 

His escort stands at his back, but Jon feels alone and small, nothing more than a child come to be scolded by his father. 

What a toilsome journey that has led them each here.

The air is nearly solid with dread. The weight of it pushes down on Jon to the point where he feels his knees may buckle. His back and shoulder ache from days of riding. His father’s eyes are dark and seem to see straight through him to the fragile boy begging mercy on Theon’s behalf. It’s been so long since Jon has been that helpless. 

But here he is no longer the lord’s bastard. No more is he a child to be scolded. Jon straightens his shoulders. He is an envoy of the high lords of the Iron Islands, a consort to their heir, entrusted by their ruler. And he has not come to beg forgiveness. 

Drawing himself up, Jon says firmly as he can, “Lord Stark.”

Lord Stark does not move.

Jon speaks, “I am here at your request, by the hospitality of Lady Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands. As a gesture of goodwill and accord between your two great houses, my lady has sent me with fine gifts for you and your family. For your personal smith, two wagons of steel ingots, and one of copper. Further, a hundred barrels of ore await transport in Torrehn’s Square, to be sold and traded. My lady asks that there be no further feud between the houses of Stark and Greyjoy, nor between the North and the Iron Islands. Our peoples are both the blood of the First Men, kings long before the southerners ever came to this land. My lady finds that we should instead be allies, and hopes to forge common cause for the coming winter.”

His proclamation goes unanswered. The whole party is silent: Lord Stark, Robb, Jory Cassell, everyone. A few of the mounts nicker and toss their heads. Long direwolf banners hang motionless aloft their standards. 

At the head of the party, Lord Stark dismounts and hands his horse's reins off to a footman. His great fur-lined cloak sweeps over the mud behind. 

Jon must repress a flinch. He swallows. Surely Father is furious with him, after all he’s done. Father will strike him. Here before all these men. He’s sure of it.

But instead he strides up and sweeps Jon into his arms. It’s such a bewildering thing that Jon stands frozen for a moment. As if he’s never been embraced before by anyone.

“It is good to see you well and whole,” Father says with an uncommonly gentle voice. “It relieves me to see that you made the voyage safely.”

Jon cannot manage words, but his limbs finally respond, throwing his arms around his father’s back. The air flows out of Jon as if he’s not let himself breathe in years, and his body sags a little in his father’s grip. Screwing his eyes shut against the tears, Jon buries himself into his father’s rich, soft furs and breathes in the icy smell of him.

It has been so long, Jon had forgotten how welcoming the scent of the North was. The resin incense he had treasured back in Braavos had not come close. 

“I missed you,” Jon admits quietly. 

It feels quite foolish to say, when Jon had chosen to leave as he did. With his face buried into his father’s wolfskin collar he’s not sure he is heard, anyway. 

With the tension broken, Lord Stark pulls away from Jon and waves back to his guard. “Collect their gifts, bring the wagons to Mikken. Prepare a gift of thanks for the ship to return with. Good timber to send back to the Lady Greyjoy, and some harvest fruits from our stores to keep the men well-fed on their return journey.”

Men come forward to lead the carthorses. Stark and Tallhart men mingle and greet each other, some calling to familiar faces.

“Benfred,” Lord Stark addresses the Tallhart boy as he dismounts, “it is good to see you again, lad. You look more like your father every year.”

“My father would thank you for that, my lord, but my mother would surely not.” Benfred smiles and offers his arm in greeting. Lord Stark takes it.

The party starts to lead their horses toward the open gate. Jon looks at the open archway, biting his lip in distress.

Relief has made him dizzy and tired, as if he’d sprinted the way here. But he must compose himself. Jon turns to address his own guard. “Do what you can to help the trade-off. And my thanks, Benfred Tallhart, for your safe escort.”

Though Jon’s host of Tallhart men had not hesitated to mock him the whole journey, now, in sight of a true lord, they all nod and bow. 

For a moment, Jon watches the men mill together, Stark sigils and Tallhart banners. It’s a soothing sight; calming. It’s been so long since he’s seen the snarling Direwolf, or any banner of the North. A whole childhood of lessons spent learning all their names, memorizing family lineages and house words, days so dull Jon has been bored to tears. For the first time since stepping off the _Sea Bitch,_ Jon feels a degree of certainty. 

It jars him, when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he turns to see his father’s face.

It does not feel real, to see him now. It’s still a shock to turn his head and see him. Everything Jon has been through to return to Winterfell somehow does not feel like enough. 

Jon straightens his sore back to regard him with a nod, “Father.”

Lord Stark’s eyes crinkle at the word, his smile stretching over his face. He does not say anything, and Jon struggles to keep the silence at bay.

"My lady surely thanks you," Jon says, "for your honest conduct."

"There is no other sort of conduct with having," Father replies. "It is good to have you here, Jon."

“It is good to be here— I’m…” Jon cannot apologize. He is not sorry for any of the things he did. Instead he decides, “I never — wanted to leave.”

That finally changes something in Lord Stark. After a moment, he says, “Duty calls us all away, eventually. It happens when we are not ready for it.”

At that, Jon smiles. It is a lesson Father had taught him long before Theon’s imprisonment. Duty had called his father away to war, called Lady Catelyn away to the North. It is something he told all of his children would come for them, in time. And for how many years Jon heard the lesson, he had never let himself realize that duty may call him away from his family. 

But Lord Stark knew. Looking at him now, Jon feels as if Lord Stark knew all along. 

“Come, now,” his father says. “You must be tired from the journey. The hour grows late, and it can all be discussed further in the morning. Robb and I will take you to your chambers and let you rest for the night.”

Jon glances at the granite walls of the Great Keep, but Lord Stark shakes his head. Robb sucks at his teeth, an irritated gesture Jon recognizes in Theon. He wonders distantly, which of them had it first.

“Chambers have been furnished for you and your escort in the guesthouse,” Lord Stark informs him with an air of remorse. “If you’ll follow me.”

Jon follows. He keeps his head up, despite the insult. He must conduct himself with dignity, especially here in the yard, where every man is watching him. Jon feels like a lamb in a dog kennel, trotting blindly before slavering jaws. He must be steady. 

As they start toward the guesthouse, Lord Stark uncharacteristically fills the silence. “We will have a bath drawn for you, if you’d like, and I’ve given Robb permission to take supper with you, if you are not too weary for his company.”

Exhausted as he is, Jon has never heard so sweet an offer. “I would like that very much. Thank you, my lord,” he says, glancing at his brother.

Robb grins back at him, but does not interrupt. It seems he is afraid to say much of anything in front of their father. Jon understands that. He finds comfort in his own silence as they walk. He shuffles beside him, quiet as Wex.

Jon cannot recall ever setting foot in the guesthouse before now, though it has little difference from the chambers of the main castle, the changes are noticeable. The corridors are narrower. Lit torches burn in their iron sconces on the wall, freshly dusted for Jon’s arrival. Rather than Stark colours draping the halls in wide tapestries and banners, there are only small direwolf carvings etched into the keystones above the doors. Gentle reminders of who houses visitors here.

As Jon is led along the corridor he can feel the warmth radiating from the castle walls. He reaches out and brushes his hand over the grey stone as he walks, like a child with a stick against a fence. He can see long, thin brown banners adorned with the tall green trees of Tallhart hung on the far end of the corridor. Welcoming markers for his host. There is no banner at all at the door Lord Stark stops to open for him. Inside there is a wide wood-and-copper tub filled with steaming water. It looks so warm and inviting that Jon’s bones ache just to look at it.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Lord Stark remarks. “Your belongings will be brought up presently, but we have left some items for your use: fresh clothes, a quill and parchment if you have need of it. Robb will be by later with your supper.” Father stands uncomfortably for a moment before stooping down to embrace Jon once more. “It’s good to have you returned to us, Jon.”

Lord Stark shuts the door behind him as he and Robb leave.

The bath is incredible. Steaming and warm as the godswood pools as he steps in. For a moment Jon lets himself just soak in the water, feeling the grime from travel lift away from his skin as he lets his arms float lazily at his sides. His eyes slide shut and he allows himself to relax. The light from the candles glitters against the setting sun from the windows and casts shadowy shapes against his eyelids. 

Before too long, he allows himself to wash properly, scrubbing dirt and sweat from his hair and dragging a wedge of soap over his skin. The soap is sweet, scented with almond oil, and reminds Jon of Theon when they were growing up together in Winterfell. It’s been some time since Theon has bothered to purchase almond oil from a merchant. Vanity has served him little these days.

Once clean, Jon steps from the tub and dries himself with his robe, shaking excess water from his curls. He ties back his hair. There’s a clean set of clothes on Jon’s trunk, and he recognizes them as an old tunic and trousers he’d left behind. He’s startled to find they still fit as he pulls them on.

Jon had spent so long in his bath that it isn’t much time before there’s a knock at his door. Swinging it open, he sees Robb grinning at him, standing with a large carafe of wine and two goblets in his hands. A young servant girl that Jon does not recognize is standing behind Robb, expertly balancing a large tray with two plates piled with honey-roasted pheasant and parsnips in her arms.

As the girl sets the dishes down on the chamber’s wooden table before the fire, Robb sets down the flagon and two goblets beside it and gives her a charming little smile. 

“That will be all, Sara,” he says to the girl, “thank you.”

With a soft curtsey and a lasting curious look at Jon, she departs, shutting the door behind her. 

The moment they are alone, Robb smiles and throws his arms around Jon’s shoulders. It knocks the air from him. Though he does not dare push Robb away. Jon embraces his brother in return, clenches his hands hard in Robb’s cloak.

When Robb finally pulls away, his face is pink from the effort in holding back his tears. “Look at you! Draped all in krakens and seal fur. And gods, your hair! It has grown so long,” he remarks with a wet sort of laugh, running a hand through the curls that nearly brush against Jon’s shoulder.

“Well, a fortnight on the road has let it grow out more than I like, but I am fond of wearing it back as the northmen do these days.”

“It… gods be good, it makes you look so much like father.”

“Aye, well.” Jon tucks a stray lock behind his ear as Robb pulls his hand away. “Can’t have it in my face all the time. And Theon pouts like a child when I cut it.”

For some reason, it makes Robb laugh, uproarious and slightly hysterical before pulling Jon into another hug.

“Gods, but it is good to see you, brother. I thought it would be years and years yet before I would see your face again.”

Silently, Jon smiles. Returns the embrace. It may be that long still before Robb sees his closest friend again. Neither of them dare mention that, but it is clear on Robb’s face suddenly, a sadness in his eyes that he attempts to hide with a low chuckle.

“And how… how is Theon?” Robb asks. His voice sounds regretful even as the words leave his mouth, but Robb is too stubborn for his heart, Jon knows. He can’t bear not asking after him.

“He misses you,” Jon says first, because he knows Robb would like to hear it. “But he is well. In good health. Returned home, with his sister, his people. Stubborn as ever, truly, but he…” Jon stifles the urge to tell Robb everything, but that somehow feels like betraying Theon, to share so much while he is away. “He is unchanged, in most ways.”

Robb scoffs. “Well, I’m not sure I believe that.”

“In most ways, I said,” concedes Jon, grinning. “The last two years have had their adventures for us both, certainly. But we have come through it intact. Braavos was by the sea. _On_ the sea, really. Half the city is sunken and the rest floods every other day. It was crowded, so crowded. Cramped, filthy. Some days the smell alone could kill a goat. But Theon loved it. He copied ledgers for the harbourmaster on the wharf and I’ve hardly ever seen him happier.”

“Hard to imagine Theon happy to work,” Robb chuckles, and Jon smirks over his wine. “But Braavos! You must tell me what it was like.”

“We both found such work here and there. Most men don’t write, and knowing the Common Tongue made us desirable to have on the wharfs. It paid well enough, but we lived rough at times. Ships come from all over the world, Robb,” he tells his brother with a smile. “I’d… I’d never realized how… how _remote_ it is in the North, I suppose, but I learned it on those docks. Men from lands I’d never heard of. Goods from all over the world come through that port. Sights I’d never seen. Anything could be bought. Foods, flowers, silks and brocades and gems, potions and artifacts, birds and livestock, perfumes and wines. The courtesans, they are the richest women in the city. Some of the richest men too. They each have grand barges and servants to wait on them. And the people there love their plays. The city is full of playhouses and actors, and they all hate one another. There are great rivalries between companies going back years and years.”

Robb nods along excitedly. “And did you attend any of these famous Braavosi playhouses?”

“A few. The tragedies were all extravagant and beautiful but done in Valyrian. Some of the bawdy comedies were played in the Common Tongue.”

“Ah, Theon must’ve loved _that_.”

“They had their merits,” Jon admits.

“And the Iron Islands? You must have been there several months now, yes?”

Pushing at the pheasant with his fork, Jon nods. “Aye, we have been. First at Ten Towers, and then later to Pyke.” Finally, he offers, “I met his mother.”

Robb blinks. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. “Oh.”

Regretting mentioning her at all, Jon shrugs. “And his sister. His aunt and uncle. He has quite a lot of family who were — they were all quite pleased to see him.”

It’s not completely true, but it makes Robb smile, and Jon moves on to talk of other things. What the islands are like, and Braavos.

Still, as Jon recalls their travels, he’s surprised to realize how much he has to tell. It’s strange, gauging Robb’s reaction as he mentions things that became so quickly commonplace to him, such as laundering his own clothes or working in a chancery. Robb, Jon is disappointed to learn, does not seem nearly as fascinated by hummingbirds as he had been.

They talk a long while, well into the night; and for the time, it is like they are brothers once more. The purest of friends, and the world will never divide them.

At long last, Jon runs out of things to share, he asks of Robb, “And Winterfell, then? How have things been in my absence?”

Robb makes a face. “Father has been different, since you’ve been gone. I’m certain it didn’t escape your notice. Distant, at first, but… since word of your return made it to us, he’s… well, he’s acted oddly.”

Chewing his pheasant, now long cold, Jon recalls how Lord Stark seemed so unusually discomforted as he escorted Jon to his room. “Aye, I did notice.”

“He never speaks of it. Of why you left, or of — he does not speak of Theon. Only ‘the Iron Islands.’ The few times I’ve spoken of you to him, he scolds me, is reluctant to say anything at all. And I suppose it is not unlike Father to be so quiet, but it feels quite different than his usual sort of silence.”

Jon nods, but it seems a strange thing to hear, after the way Father greeted him earlier. Robb shrugs. Jon wants to ask after the younger children, but cannot bear to hear that Arya is still furious with him, or that the little ones have perhaps forgotten him entirely. But something must show on Jon’s face, because Robb reaches across the table and grips his hand.

“In all the time since you left I have not seen him smile as he did when word got back to us from the Iron Islands of your return. He called Mother and me into his solar and…” Robb trails off for a long while and clears his throat. “Mother was upset, but… Father had smiled, when Maester Lewin brought us in to read the letter. He was smiling, and I knew you were... safe.”

It warms Jon’s heart, and he grins. When Robb smiles back, Jon notices his eyes are shining.

“I still have your letters, you know. The ones you sent from Braavos. I only ever got three but they were dear to me. Theon is — he’s so different, in his letters. Talks of you nonstop, of how lucky he is to have you.” 

Jon flushes, caught off-guard by the change in subject. “What? He does?”

“And just…” Robb grins at him. “He’s right, isn’t he? Despite everything, fleeing and hiding, you have done what none of us could: you brought him home. You say he is unchanged but I see you now and… I understand, I think. I’ve missed you so, brother. I’ve missed you both so much, and Winterfell is so different without you. I hadn’t fully realized back then, I suppose, just how lucky I was to have you to myself.”

Stunned, Jon blinks at him. After a moment all he can mutter is, “I’m sorry that we left you.”

That he is sorry for. More than anything, he wishes they had not needed to leave Robb alone.

Waving his hand dismissively, Robb softly assures, “Aye, well, never mind that. You’re here now.”

Smiling, Jon decides to let the topic drop for Robb’s sake. Instead, he tries, “Did Father… did Father mention why I have made the journey?”

Robb blinks. “Why?” he repeats, “What do you mean ‘why’?”

Jon shrugs. He prods at another bite of pheasant on his plate. It weighs on him, and the silence stretches too long. 

“Nothing, just...” he confesses at last. “Just the — the letter he wrote.” Panicking, he finally thinks to add, “He knew. About Theon and me.”

Robb blushes. “Oh, yes. He does. The fault is mine. I… I was not as good a liar as I’d hoped I’d be.”

“Theon says that’s fault of Father,” Jon chuckles. “Says that the Stark honor makes for poor liars. I’m inclined to believe him.”

“I hadn’t meant reveal your secrets, but,” — Robb laughs a little unsurely — “Father wouldn’t understand why… why you would aid Theon. Why you would leave too.”

It reminds Jon, oddly, of Yara asking Jon if he and Theon had slept together before Theon’s imprisonment. It sits uncomfortably on his heart, and he says with more edge than is necessary, “I helped him because it was right. As you did.”

“I know that,” Robb assures gently, taking Jon’s hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just — would you have left your family without telling them goodbye?”

He’s not wrong, but Jon still takes his hand back. It had been Theon’s worry in sending him here. Jon knows he would not have been able to make that sacrifice without Theon beside him. That it is so clear to both Theon and Robb makes the hair at Jon’s nape stand straight. Perhaps it was even clear to Yara, all her callous little looks in allowing him return. He does not want to think on it.

“Did — did Father… was he angry with me?”

“No, Jon,” Robb is quick to promise, “he was never angry with you. Not for that.”

And that begs the obvious conclusion, “But with Theon.”

Robb looks down at his food, tapping his fork against his plate. “At first,” he admits, “he was. Assumed horrible things. That you had been seduced. _Abducted_. I dare not repeat the worst. But that’s why… that’s why I told him that I knew about you two. So he would not think such terrible things. Father has always looked upon love as its own sort of duty.”

He has; he does, their father. Love is such a grave duty to him that he raised Jon alongside his legitimate children.

“It is good to have you back,” Robb says, grinning, “I only wish Theon had been able to join you. But I’ll not be selfish.”

“One day soon,” promises Jon. “Perhaps you can visit us in Pyke. Theon would beam to show you his ship.”

They still have much to say to each other, truly, but as time drags Robb starts to yawn and stretch, and Jon stands, claiming exhaustion from the travel to allow him leave.

In truth, he cannot sleep. The hour is late, and so he tries, but his mind is a jumble of panic and excitement, and some emotions he cannot quite decipher. Now that Robb has retired for the evening, there is nothing more to distract him from the disquieting unfamiliarity that surrounds him. Being back at this great grey castle has put him at unease. Winterfell seems different. Smaller. Jon had never expected to return to a home that didn’t quite feel as such. He wonders briefly if Theon is having the same trouble in his own bed, miles away in Torrehn’s Square. 

He paces the chamber. Washes his face and hair in the washbasin. He lights a few more yellow-wax candles on the mantle. Stares outside the leaded window into the dark night. None of it does anything to abate his nerves. 

That feeling, at least, is familiar. The lonesomeness of Winterfell. The foreboding condition of being an outsider. Jon thought he had known what that was like to be a pariah within the castle. But now he knows he was a fool. Outsider was a place he had never tasted before today.

The North remembers, after all.

Jon is laying the wrong way upon his bed, staring at the ceiling when something smacks against the windowpane. A rattle in the silence. Jon would have thought it a bird hitting the glass, were it not the dead of night. He sits up. There is nothing to be seen beyond the casement but inky night. A few ghostly tree limbs lit by the torches outside. 

Abruptly, a shadowy figure slams against the window, and Jon leaps back as it whacks heavily against the glass. Panicked, his hand grips the hilt of Yara’s dagger at his hip. Wildly, he tries to think who would send an assassin. Who knows he is here, other than his Father? Was Theon right after all? Has it all been a trap?

Flailing, the shadow taps unsteadily against the window. “Jon! Jon — let me in.”

Bewildered, Jon’s hand falls away from his dagger. “Is… _Arya?_ ”

Another knock. “Let me in before I fall.”

Stunned, Jon complies, stepping forward to unlatch the window. The weight of Arya leaning on the other side swings the window open instantly, and she tumbles to the floor. Unhurt, she huffs, and scrambles to her feet like an angry cat, dusting off her soft grey dress. Jon rushes to light the nearest candles on his desk, waiting for the light to fill the room enough for him to get a good look at his little sister.

Much like their father, it seems like it’s been quite a few more years, on Arya. She’s taller now, her eyes sharper. Her hair is longer than his, now, pinned back in a braid that falls down the center of her shoulder blades. There is an old red scab on the bridge of her little nose. She is still a skinny young thing, but Jon sees even more of their father’s face in her than he had before he’d left. He has missed a change in her, in the time he has been gone.

“Oh, Arya,” Jon whispers, her name catching in his throat. He kneels and reaches out to hold her. “You’ve grown.”

“No,” Arya snaps, shoving Jon away. “I hate you. I _hate_ you. You left me. You _lied_.”

“I know,” Jon says with a sigh, sitting back on his heels. “I did. I’m sorry.”

She glares at him, and the sad little pout on her face reminds Jon of his own. He sees now why Theon teases him so for it. Part of him wants tease her now, to try and make her smile. Like he used to. He wishes Arya would smile.

“Did you come all this way through the dark to tell me that you hate me, Arya?”

Still glaring, she shakes her head no. Angrily, she wipes at her nose. Her fury hasn’t dissipated, but Jon can see tears brewing in her eyes, now that he’s bowed close to her. 

Smiling, Jon reaches for her a second time. “It’s good to see you, little sister.”

Eyes shining, she throws herself on him, knocking them both over with the force of her hug. Squeezing her to his chest, Jon feels some of the madness in his head go quiet, and buries his face against her neck.

“I missed you every day, you understand?” he comforts.

She twists in his arms. “Then why did you leave me?”

It’s a weight on Jon’s heart, and he sighs. “I wrote to you.”

“Robb gave me the letter,” she grumbles. A hard shove connects with his shoulder.

Releasing her, Jon asks, “And did you read it?”

Instead of answering, Arya shoves again at his chest with her little hand. “You lied to me. Told me I was your favourite in the whole castle. But I wasn’t! It was Greyjoy.”

Throat tight, Jon shakes his head. “No, no. It’s — it’s different, Arya.”

“How can you love Greyjoy more than me!?”

“It’s not that at all.”

“If it were me you would’ve _stayed._ You wouldn’t have _lied_.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry that I lied. I am. They were going to kill him, Arya,” Jon says quietly. “Kill him or… or leave him for dead. I couldn’t stay. Not — not after…”

“I _know,_ ” she shouts with a stamp of her foot, “you said so in your stupid letter. But it’s all changed since you left. Robb keeps an eye on me even more than Mother, now. Treats me like a child. Won’t let me do anything! Father keeps away more than he used to. Always says he’s too busy. Mother forbids us to speak of you. It’s like you’re dead!”

Jon blinks. It’s strange to think how things have been here. He never expected much change in the time he and Theon had been gone. 

“I’m so sorry, little sister.”

“You tell me I’m your favourite of the castle, and then you’re gone not days later.”

“I know,” Jon says now. “It’s — it’s complicated.”

“You said _that_ in your letter, too. And so does Robb. But I don’t care if it’s complicated, I want to know why!” She’s quiet for a moment, her little face screwed tight as she thinks something over. Jon doesn’t push her, waiting patiently, and before long she blurts, “What is there to love about _Theon Greyjoy_?”

A laugh bursts out of Jon, and he shrugs. “I wonder that myself, now and again,” he confesses. Arya, however, is not amused, and so dutifully, Jon continues. “But he’s a good man. And treats me as though I were one, as well.” Clearing his throat, Jon feels an odd sort of flutter in his chest as the thought of Theon settles in his mind. “Treats me as if I may be the only one, sometimes.”

Arya makes a face. “That’s stupid.”

“Maybe. It does feel rather stupid at times. Perhaps we’ll both figure it out one day,” Jon tells her gently. “But then again, perhaps I'm just a fool.”

If Arya is unsatisfied with that response, she doesn’t say so. Instead she glances around the empty space for the first time and asks, “Is he not here?”

“No,” Jon answers tensely, “he’s not.”

Arya looks struck at that answer, as if she expected Theon to be hiding under Jon’s bed. “Is he gone, then?”

“No, but he… he doesn’t quite feel welcome here, you understand.”

Arya seems to be considering something, and then says flatly, “Nobody talks about Greyjoy, anymore.”

Before he can think, Jon asks, “Not even Robb?”

Shaking her head, Arya says, “No. Though sometimes he gets quiet and goes off by himself. He takes supper in his chambers some nights.”

That causes something to clench in Jon’s chest. It was less painful, he realizes, learning he is a forbidden subject than to learn the same of Theon. He recalls the way Theon had doted on the younger children when they lived in Winterfell. He had an odd affection for them. Teaching Bran to shoot a bow when he was far too young, being the unflappable guardian to little Rickon. It would break Theon’s heart to learn if little Rickon does not even remember him. Jon cannot bear to ask.

“Is it true what they say about you?” Arya asks, very low and serious. “That you left with him to be… to be like a wife?”

Jon sighs. He has feared this moment for so long, that now that she asks it, it feels strangely minimal. “Yes, that is true.”

She makes a disgusted face. “But you’re both men.”

“That we are.”

“So why would you want to be his wife?”

How to navigate this conversation? “I fear I cannot ever describe it to your satisfaction, little sister. There is much you are too young to understand.”

“Don’t say that! Everyone always says that, but I’m not stupid.”

“No,” Jon replies, “seven hells, you’ll never be stupid, Arya. But… it is difficult. I could tell you that I love him, but that would not appease you. Love seems very foolish when you’re young. It seems like a waste, I know it. An excuse that grown ups use to do stupid things. So I fear no amount of explanation will ever leave you satisfied with me. There are things I simply cannot make you understand.”

“Does he treat you like a wife?”

Jon laughs. “Yes and no.”

Frustrated, Arya shoves him. “Stop doing that! I want to know why. Why would you care about him more than us? More than your family? Greyjoy is an ass. Even you said so.”

It is the truth, but it is all the harder to hear. Arya, his fiercest defender, accusing him of disloyalty. Jon draws his little sister over to the bed, sits down beside her. Arya’s legs swing over the edge. 

“Let me tell you it how he told it to me. Theon was younger than you are now when his brothers were slain in battle and his home destroyed. They broke the walls of Pyke, you know? King Robert and his men, they shattered the very stone to rubble. Killed the last of the ironborn that were defending Lady Greyjoy and her children. The ironborn are fearsome warriors, but they were beaten. They made Theon’s father bend the knee right on the battlefield, before all the dead. And then after all that, it was decided that Theon was to sail home with the man who’d helped make that happen. It was his duty. A child who’d had no part in rebellion or treason, he was going to ensure the peace. At cost to his life. If his father ever rebelled against the Throne again, the king would have ordered Theon killed.”

Arya looks down the floor, her frown deepening.

“So he arrives in Winterfell,” Jon continues, “a child of nine, and surrounded by enemies. The people who killed his brothers. The people who one day may kill him. And none of it had anything to do with him. Over a war he did not start or fight for. Yet, still, the people mistrust him, scorn him. Call him squidling and traitor. And he grows and comes of age in this place that suspects him of ill will and harm. He is kept estranged, both a part of the household and not.”

He pauses, watching the realization dawn on his sister’s pinched face.

“It is a bit like being a bastard," Jon finishes her thought. "Everyone hates you for something you had no part in. That sort of living can turn a man’s heart hard.”

“Is that why you love him,” his sister asks plainly, “because he knows what it’s like to be a bastard?”

“In part,” agrees Jon, “at least in the beginning, when we were both children ourselves. It was how we first grew close. At times, on rare, special days, Theon would go out of his way to be kind to me. Came and found me. Sat with me. Snuck with me into the kitchens, or comforted me when I was frightened. Even when he complained, he would still do it. Because he knew, I think. He knew what it was like to be forgotten and ignored. And I think he was not afraid to reveal that part of himself to me, because I was only a bastard, and he was highborn. It didn’t matter what I saw.”

“You should have told me. I would have done those things with you.”

“But Theon knew without asking. I did not have to beg it of him. He just saw. And asides, it is not the same, little sister. I love you dearly, but you cannot be all things to me.”

“But now _I_ am alone,” Arya whines, her voice trembling. “Now it is me left to be the bastard, and no one else.”

Petting back her hair, Jon shakes his head. It stings, knowing she will not ever truly understand this part of him. “Arya, you know that to be untrue. Your siblings are all trueborn alongside you, and they love you dearly.” Arya opens her mouth to argue, but Jon cuts her off before she can. “Even Sansa.”

Scowling, Arya huffs. “And how would you know? You're not here anymore.”

“You told me yourself, just now. That Robb watches over you more doggedly than your lady mother, since I’ve left. It is because he loves you, as your mother and father do. As Sansa and the little ones do.”

Arya considers this a moment, and finally seems to reluctantly appreciate the truth of it. Sighing, she grumbles, “I can’t imagine Greyjoy loving anyone.”

“Aye, he guards that part of his heart quite closely,” Jon agrees with a nod. “Or… at least he used to. He is not so secretive with it now. Not with me.”

Though Arya no longer seems disgusted, with that she seems still to find it silly, sticking out her tongue with a roll of her eyes. Chuckling, Jon gives her a playful shove, ruffles her hair, and Arya smiles. However, it is a short-lived grin on her little face, and she turns serious once more.

“So are you to live with him on the Iron Islands now? Be an ironborn?”

“I cannot be ironborn, Arya,” Jon says gently, avoiding her first question. "I am of the North, now and forever. It’s in my blood, as it is in yours. You know that.”

Arya does not fall for his hesitance. “But are you going to live with them, as Greyjoy’s wife?”

Clicking his tongue, Jon wonders how best to answer. “For now, I… I’m doing so now, yes. Though, how long that shall continue isn’t clear to either of us, truly.”

“So you’re going to go back?”

“I am, sister.”

Arya is silent for a minute, biting her lip. She looks up at Jon. “Is it true that the Iron Islands have a lady lord?”

She sounds enthralled, all other questions she may have had for Jon, in this moment, are entirely forgotten.

“Aye,” Jon grins at that, “that they do.”

“Have you met her?”

“I have, yes. She was the one to receive us when we arrived in Pyke. Theon’s older sister, Lady Yara.”

Arya frowns. "Is she called a lady or a lord, then?"

"Both," chuckles Jon. "She is a highborn lady, and I suppose she always will be. But she has vanquished her wretched uncle and claimed the Seastone Chair, making her Lord of the Iron Islands, like her father and grandfather. She did not change the title simply because she was not a man, I suppose."

Arya’s eyes grow wide. “What’s she like?”

“Fearsome and strong.” He chuckles to himself for a moment. “Like a storm at sea. Imagine a woman like Theon, smiling and proud, but rather than hunts and jests, she has seen battle and is a proven warrior. She has thirty ships at her command, and crews to man them all. Her men love her, would fight and die for her. Her hair is short, just to the tops of her ears. On her hip she wears an axe, and with it she slew her uncle’s rebels who tried to kill her. She goes about the castle in trousers and quilted doublets. No gowns.”

The look of wonderment on Arya’s face is enough to have Jon laugh out loud. 

"Perhaps one day you shall sail to Pyke and meet her yourself. I believe she’d be quite impressed by you.”

“I could come visit you?”

“Whyever not? Lady Yara is aiming to restore peaceable relations with the mainland, now that winter is approaching. The Iron Islands cannot grow food as well as we do in the North. They are too small and too rocky. So she is wanting to trade with the mainland for things the Iron Islands have plenty of, like fish and ore. She’ll be hosting high lords in her hall dawn to dusk, trying to win their favour.”

“She likes you, then?”

Jon scoffs. “I’m not sure of that. Tolerates me, more like. I keep her brother happy, and her brother's happiness is important to ber. Though she did gift me a dagger.” When Arya’s eyes light up, he unhooks the sheath from his belt and hands it to her. “Be careful, it’s sharp.”

Rolling her eyes, Arya grumbles, “I know it’s sharp,” before gingerly pulling the blade free.

The moment he sees the glint of steel, Jon is panicked she will drop it and cut her hand open. But she doesn’t. Arya’s eyes are bright as she inspects the dagger.

“Have you cut anyone with it?”

It was absolutely a mistake to show her. Jon scolds himself as he holds out his hand for the blade. She does not hand it back to him. Finally, begrudgingly, he admits, “Yes, I have.”

“Did you kill him?”

Jon scoffs. “No, nothing as thrilling as that.”

Thankfully Arya does not ask for further detail, though looks crestfallen to learn the blade has not taken a life as she resheathes it. Squinting, she notices the engraving in the sheath and says aloud, “That’s the Greyjoy sigil.”

“Aye, it was gifted to me from Lady Greyjoy.”

“But now it’s yours,” she says flatly.

Jon is unsure what she means by that. He nods as she hands it back.

After Jon refastens it to his hip, he stands from the bed. He slips his hands beneath Arya’s arms and pulls her up onto his hip, carrying her like he used to when she was just learning to walk. She throws her skinny arms tight around his neck.

“I don’t want you to go,” she pleads. “I don’t want you to leave again!”

“Oh, I know, little sister.” He turns his face into her hair. Just to her, he allows himself to admit, “Part of me doesn’t want to go either.”

“But you’re going to.”

He holds her tight. “I am.”

“Will you say goodbye this time?”

Jon clenches his jaw to keep his tears back. “Of course I will. If your lady mother allows.”

“I don’t care what Mother says. I want to say goodbye when you go.”

Smiling, sets her down on the floor. "You must do something for me, when I’m gone again."

"What?"

Jon swallows, heart heavy in his throat. "You must take care of Robb."

"But why?” protests Arya. “Robb is strong."

“I know he is.” Kneeling, Jon places his hands on both Arya’s shoulders. Father does this when imparting important wisdom. “But because he is so strong, he does not ask for help when he needs it. And... I fear that he is very lonely now. Now that Theon and I are both gone. And he’d never admit it, especially to his younger sister. He wants to be strong for you. So please, be good for him.”

Arya considers this for a moment. Squinting, she points out, “You just want me to behave like Sansa.”

Chuckling, Jon tousels her hair. “Perhaps just behave at all,” he admits, smiling, “but not like anyone else. I only mean he needs to know that you love him, as much as _I_ knew it, before. And… I know Robb would love to teach you to shoot a bow. Ask him.”

“I asked Greyjoy if he would, once,” Arya says with a bite to her voice. “He said archery wasn’t for girls.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “Aye, well, I doubt he’d say that now he’s seen his sister again. But Robb is a fine archer as well. And he knows better than Greyjoy, doesn’t he?”

That makes Arya smile and nod. Grinning, Jon kisses her head. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to see her again before he leaves Winterfell. He wishes he could keep her in the tower with him, just for the night.

“I do love you, Arya. I’m sorry I cannot make it more clear.”

Arya’s smile falls. She scuffs her boot against the flagstone. “I believe you,” she says quietly. For a moment, they stand in silence. “But I still think Greyjoy’s an ass.”

It makes Jon laugh. “Aye, well. I doubt I could convince you otherwise of that.” He ruffles her hair. “Now be careful leaving. Don’t be seen. I can’t have your mother angry with me anymore than she is already.”

“No one’ll see,” Arya promises as she hops up to the window she fell through, grabbing onto the tree branch she was perched on. “I’ve gotten quite good at climbing!”

“Gods, be careful!” Jon whispers after her, but Arya has already darted away.


	12. Jon

The brothel is where it has always been.

Still standing in the shadow of Winterfell’s walls down the muddy road from the inn and the market. A wattle and daub cottage of two storeys with a single stout chimney at one end. It looks much the same as any other building in the winter town, unremarkable unless one knew the lewd business conducted within. Moss overgrows the shingled roof. A woodpile is stacked lopsided beneath a windowsill. This whitewashed structure has stood here longer than Jon has been alive and will surely go on standing long after he is dead. It had not always been a brothel, surely. Perhaps it will have many lives.

A shaggy hawthorn tree shades the unpainted door. Now, in the thickening autumn, it has begun dropping red haws. No one has swept them from the path in some time, and they crunch under Jon’s boots as he approaches.

This will bring more scandal and gossip down on him. He knows that; saw it in the scrutiny of the gatehouse guards as he left the castle, saw it in the looks the townsfolk shot his way and he walked through the muddy paths on foot. Word of his excursion has likely already reached his father. 

Inside, the place is the same as it ever was. Indigo muslin drapes gloom the inside in a dreamy gauze. Fretted censers hang on chains. The air is choked with resin incense smoke. A trick to ward off the stench of business. The brothels in Braavos had done it as well.

The old woman who runs the establishment does not recognize him. That’s just as well. She greets him happily and asks him his pleasure.

“I’m here for Ros,” replies Jon.

“Well, beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but the dear is presently busy, ” the old woman appears very disappointed on his behalf. “We have many other girls, though. Or a boy, perhaps? Something more to your liking?”

A nimble girl reclining on the cushions springs up. She is freckled with sandy hair and naked beneath a woolen shawl drawn about her shoulders. Another with dark eyes and painted red lips tugs immodestly at the laces of her robe.

“I’m afraid it’s only Ros I’m here for.” Jon waves them off.

The old woman is obviously displeased by that. The girls equally so.

“Some ale, if you have any,” he entreats, holding up a few coppers in hopes that will warm their spirits to him. “I do not mind to wait.”

The woman counts his coins in a many-ringed hand. Satisfied, she shoos one girl off to fetch him a drink. 

Jon takes a seat and the sandy-hair girl returns with a tankard of weak ale. She smiles and presses her body against his, boldly kissing his cheek as she sets down his drink. Pulling away, Jon thanks her and presses a few coppers into her palm. She leaves him unbothered, satisfied with her earnings.

A few more girls make their attempts as he waits, hoping to snatch a customer from a competitor, but Jon deters them with rewards of coin. They giggle to one another and show off their earnings. A few, having heard of the generous customer awaiting them, descend the stairs to retrieve their prize as well. In a far, dark corner, a boy with kohl-rimmed eyes and rouged cheeks regards him with suspicion through the scented smoke. Surely hateful of the customer freely giving away coin to the fawning girls. 

Sipping his watered-down ale, Jon withers somewhat beneath his contempt. He would offer the boy a coin too, if only to keep him away.

But Northern men can be cruel about these things. Most northmen would strike the boy for being too forward; presuming that he is wanted at all.

Stomping feet down the wooden steps draws Jon’s attention. A balding man with a greying beard descends, righting his simple homespun clothes. He nods briefly at the old woman as he leaves.

“Ros will be ready for you, lad,” she tells Jon, indicating the narrow steps with her elbow.

Finishing his cup, Jon stands and crosses the dim room toward the boy seating on the far cushions. The boy’s hackles rise as he approaches, his eyes wide like a child’s with their black lining. 

Jon takes the boy’s slim wrist and places a coin in his palm. “Here,” he says, “for leaving me alone.”

Disbelieving, the boy’s eyes flick between the coin in his hand and Jon. As if he is a madman gibbering nonsense.

The other girls titter at the scene. Jon knows what it must look like, forcing a payment on the boy. But again, such pettiness hardly seems of consequence anymore. What had terrified him as a boy now, on the other side of his journeying, seems only juvenile in concern.

Turning away from the stunned boy, Jon climbs the narrow stairs. With any luck, Ros’s room will still be the one he remembers. 

He doesn’t rush, as he had the last time he’d been in this brothel. His ears burn at the memory as he makes his way down the narrow hall. Oddly, it feels more like the first time he’d been here than the last, upon his sixteenth nameday, when Theon had thought to buy him a woman as a gift. His feet are steadier on the wooden planks than he remembers being. 

The sandy-haired girl, now dressed in a thin shift, slips from Ros’s door. She darts past him down the corridor, nimble like a doe. The hive of the brothel is never still.

The door to Ros’s room is left ajar. He knocks once, and it swings open. For an instant, Ros’s face is a perfect mask of shock. Eyes wide and her painted lips parted in a gasp. Then she collects herself. Though her eyebrows stay raised, she works her mouth into a charming smile.

“Well,” she says breathlessly, “I must say, m’lord, never thought I’d be seeing the likes of you here again.”

She hasn’t aged a day. Still tall and beautiful with beaming eyes and a plush, puckish smile. Waves of tawny red hair tousle down her back. Around her shoulders she wears a long robe of green-dyed wool, a collar of rabbit fur. Jon’s heart stutters a beat at the sight of her. He’ll not deny it. She is beautiful and ensnaring.

“It has been two years or more since I was in Winterfell,” Jon offers by way of reply. “It heartens me to see the village again.”

“Oh, aye,” she sings, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “the village, as you say.”

Jon shuts the door behind them. Ros watches over her shoulder before taking up her silver hairpin.

“They’ve been saying you were coming for more than a fortnight, now,” she chirps as she fastens her curls above the nape of her neck. “Thought it was just whore’s gossip at first, but then the guardsmen from the castle started saying it were true also. It’s been all anyone can talk about.”

“I did not think my arrival would cause such a stir.”

Ros scoffs at his words openly without concern for propriety. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t. Running away as you did. But m’lord, I’ve lived in this little village every day of my life. Since the last summer. Under your grandfather when I was a girl, and now your lord father, through two wars. And never have I seen the castle in such a state as the morning you and Lord Greyjoy fled.”

Jon winces. “Was it so bad?” 

“Your father’s guards turned the village upside down. He brought every man and woman before him to question himself. Never seen a man in such a state in all my days. Even doing the work I do.”

Jon imagines his father sending the Winterfell guardsmen hunting through the village, interrogating smallfolk, ransacking houses, upturning carts, searching for he and Theon. “I hope it was not too disruptive.”

“They’ll be talking about you long after you go, now,” Ros speculates. “Lord Snow, the man who gives coins to whores to keep them away.”

“They are eager to make their living,” Jon says mildly, “and I don’t begrudge them that. I have the coppers to spare.”

Not to mock him, Ros tries to hide her tender smile behind her hand. “Always were a soft heart, m’lord. If you’ll pardon my saying.”

“You’ll all have a good laugh at my expense once I depart. I don’t mind it.”

Ros waves her hand with a friendly huff. “You’re a better man than comes through this place often.”

“Not high praise, I’m sure.”

“No,” Ros admits, “it isn’t.”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Jon feels a twinge of guilt in his chest, though he is unsure why. He has never done anything cruel to her. “I hope Lord Greyjoy was no worse to you.”

She laughs. “No, not him. Lads like him, they are looking for kindness as much as conquest. He had his rude moments, but then all young men do. He’s not the worst that’s darkened my door. Though it might wound his brittle pride to know it, so perhaps just keep that between the two of us.”

“Easy enough,” he tells her. “He has not joined me here.”

Her eyebrow arches elegantly, though he knows better than to think she is surprised. “No?” She sits on the bed. “Do send him my love, then.”

“I shall,” Jon replies. He notices Ros pat the spot on the bed beside her, but pretends he doesn’t. "I know you were a source of great comfort to him when nothing else was. If he were here with us now, I might even coax him to thank you for it."

"Young Lord Greyjoy thanking a common whore?" She giggles, incredulous. "I do doubt it."

Jon smiles at the idea. "No, you're probably right. His pride is precious to him, still. He thinks he must be cruel to those beneath him to be powerful."

"Lord Greyjoy never used me cruelly," she shrugs. "Perhaps rudely, as you say, but no worse than other men. And you, well..." She shifts to angle her breasts forward, rolls back her head to expose her pale throat, leveled a steamy, half-lidded gaze at him, "you were as sweet as cream, little lord."

A lifetime ago, the display might have mortified him. But Jon smiles and accepts her compliment. "But, even if he could not bring himself to say it, allow me to offer gratitude on his behalf, and mine as well.”

From his belt Jon retrieves a small coin purse. He slips his hand from beneath his sealskin cloak and places it upon her bedside dresser.

Ros’s beautiful face falls. A sort of understanding disappointment comes over her. She looks away and begins unlacing the ties of her robe.

“There’s no need for that,” Jon dissuades her. “I am not after your services. This is a gift, on behalf of Lord Greyjoy, and myself.”

Ros stares in dubiety. “A gift?”

“In that purse are ten dragons and fifty stags. They are yours. No indenture, no debt.”

“For _me_?”

“A gift of gratitude from Lord Greyjoy and from myself. For all you have done for the both of us. And for keeping our secrets when they were dire.”

Her incredulity only grows. Ros snatches up the leather pouch and opens the drawstring. Her mouth falls open. She does not overturn the contents into her hand, instead gaping at the open purse. Several times she looks between Jon and the little pouch of riches, dumbstruck.

“If not for my services, then what does Lord Greyjoy intend to buy of me?”

“Nothing,” Jon affirms, “nothing at all. A gift, truly.”

“Snow, I am a whore, and a young man has handed me a purse of coin in my place of business. Most men surely would expect _something_ in return.”

“On my word, this is given to you without debt and without indenture. It is yours.”

Ros goes very still then, like she has seen a ghost. Her brow crinkles and her plush mouth parts as she finally grasps his genuity. Before Jon’s eyes, all her caricature and pleasantries evaporate away like steam. The vibrant playfulness she has curated so deliberately is replaced by bald skepticism and distrust.

Jon is not stupid. Their encounters had never been wholly genuine. Even if she truly finds him sweet and unthreatening, Ros had plied her trade upon him in the times they met like any other man; flattered and crooned and deferred. Her smile, her eagerness, it had always been bought and paid for. Never for an instant had Jon forgotten that. 

But this, he thinks, might be a glimpse of the true Ros. Of the girl as she might appear amongst her fellows. 

“What will I do with this?” she asks solemnly after a long silence.

“Whatever suits your whim. You could buy this place. I know you’d treat the girls well, and the winter town will fill up with men as the harvest approaches. Or leave the North, if you so choose. It is the end of summer and winter comes soon behind. Head south for the warmth and wait out the snows in comfort.”

“Is this his way of getting me to follow you back to the Iron Islands? Does he want to keep me locked away in a castle too?”

“No,” Jon chuckles, the idea a little absurd, “though I’m sure he would enjoy that, that’s not his aim. Nor mine.”

“I’m not going to those dreadful rocks. I know what they do to women there.”

“That’s quite fine, my lady.”

Ros gawks, mystified. Jon does not interrupt. For a moment, they simply share the silence.

“Does Lord Greyjoy know of this gift he’s provided me?” she presses at last.

Jon nods. “Aye, he knows. He keeps his purse much closer nowadays than he did when we were boys, my lady. Not much boasting of lordship or frivolous spendings while we were in hiding. For a while we slept in haystacks and brothels ourselves.”

A smile twitches on Ros’s face then, and Jon thinks it may be an honest one. It is gone as quickly as it came, and she looks back at the purse. Jon observes her a moment.

“I understand your wariness, my lady. I do,” he assures. “But I… I do believe you kept us safer than you realize. I only… well, the both of us wished to show honest gratitude for your diligence and discretion. And to reimburse what you are owed.”

“What I am owed,” she scoffs. Ros looks back down at the purse, pulling the drawstring shut. Setting it beside her on the bed, she turns back to Jon. “May I ask a favour of you then, m’lord? If it’s not too much trouble.”

Stunned, Jon nods.

Ros seems pleased to have surprised him. “When you see Lord Greyjoy again, do give him my thanks.”

“Aye,” Jon tells her with a smirk, “he’ll be glad for it.”

Ros — disbelieving — looks to her prize before standing. “Well, and for you, little lord,” she hums, slinking toward him, suddenly all hunter once more. Jon’s back straightens, but he does not pull away when she bows to kiss him firmly upon the mouth. His stomach flips, despite himself. The blood drains from his face. Even now, on the other side of virginity as he is, her charms are still potent. But even still, it retains not lust nor lechery, only an unvarnished sort of intimate fondness. It’s sweet, and brief, and Ros smiles content at him when they pull apart.

“My thanks to you, Jon Snow. Not often that I get such gifts, even when I’m bedded. Lord Greyjoy is a lucky man indeed to have the devotion of one so kind.”

A blush finally does crawl up Jon’s nape. “I — thank you, my lady.”

“And perhaps you are lucky, too,” she says with a grin, and reaches up and touches a soft finger to the tip of Jon’s nose, “though I don’t quite believe our Lord Greyjoy knows _just_ how much he’s given away to a whore whose bed has forgotten him.”

Jon snorts, but does not argue. “I wish you well, my lady. Keep it safe, where it will not be found. Tell no one of your gift.”

“You need not teach secret-keeping to a brothel girl, Snow. I know how to guard my riches well.”

It occurs to Jon that he will probably never see her again. And neither will Theon. These actions will almost surely be final between them. That sets an odd knot of emotion in his throat. Whatever else, he does not like to think that paths are closing to him forever. Further and further from Winterfell, from it’s people, from the North. Who else will be gone if he ever returns again? How long until he is more stranger here than son?

People would laugh, surely; Jon Snow, melancholy over a whore.

He smiles, because what else can he do? “I’ll take my leave of you then, my lady.”

“Take care, dear Snow.” 

Outside, the sky is low and grey, the colour of lead. Red haws crunch beneath his boot outside the unpainted door. The air’s hibernal chill is harsh against his face. Jon tugs his scarf and cloak more tightly around his neck. 

Without looking back, he sets off down the path towards the looming walls of Winterfell.

The whole yard is chattering when he is readmitted through the gates. Laundresses and farriers fix surreptitious glares at him as they go about their tasks. A few scowl outright. Jon keeps his head high, tries to be like Theon and let their contempt roll off of him like water off a seal. Surely it is only their love for Lord Stark that prevents the people from accosting him outright. After all, how dare this bastard traitor spit on his father’s love and hospitality? Openly visiting a whore in broad daylight? It’s not what you think, he wants to tell them. But what point is there in arguing with figments? 

Jon crosses the muddy yard and pretends he can’t see them.

He strides into the Great Keep and no one stops him. The hall is bustling in preparation for the meal tonight. Not quite a feast, but Lord Stark insists on seating Jon in the hall over a harvest supper of late-summer dishes with a few musicians to entertain. Two men are building the fire in the grand hearth of the feast hall, burning high and hot. A serving girl dusts the heavy hanging tapestries, a hundred years old or more. Woven images of the snowy godswood, wolves hunting on the moor. They’ve hung in this room for longer than Jon has been alive. They were old when his father was a child tottering around this castle with his own brothers and sister.

It’s odd to picture his own father as a child. It had always seemed obvious to Jon that Lord Stark must have always been a grown man, steady and equable under the mantle of rulership.

Slipping out of the feast hall he climbs the spiral steps to the second floor. Steam drips from the walls where warm water is piped through. In the deep frost of winter sometimes the whole castle steams in the morning light like a massive slumbering beast. Jon remembers the sight. 

There is no guardsman posted at his father’s door. Perhaps he is not there.

But through the ajar door he can hear a tended fire crackling and the scribble of a quill. The door is open, but it still feels strange, not to knock.

“Enter,” Father calls from behind the oaken door.

Lord Stark is instantly attentive as Jon enters his solar. 

“Yes, Jon? What is it?”

Despite his show of confidence, Jon hesitates. He hopes he need not defend his excursion to the winter town brothel. “I wanted to offer my proper thanks, in private, this time. My thanks for hosting me, and for seeing me safely to Winterfell. For permitting the safe conduct of the ironborn to Torrhen’s Square. I thought that I might never be permitted to return after what I'd done. And I am gladdened to find instead that I have been invited.”

“Jon,” Lord Stark assures, “no matter what ever may come to pass, you will always be welcome in Winterfell.”

“But not Theon.”

Father sighs. “The king has rescinded his order. I would have no obligation to take Lord Greyjoy into custody.”

“But still, he is not welcome.”

The tendon in Lord Stark’s jaw flexes. “If you had brought him, I would have housed him, given him guest rights. But he is no friend of the northmen. And there is much rumour as to the… nature of your departure. That you were compelled in some way.”

“They are lies,” Jon insists, “all of them, Father. No matter what they say. He did not force or coerce me. I went willingly.”

“Your brother made me aware of that much.”

Speaking of this to his father — Jon is mortified. A vice churns in his guts. His cheeks flame in humiliation. He knew — had assumed — that Father would eventually suspect the reason for Jon’s absconsion along with Theon. But having it said to his face is nearly intolerable.

Lord Stark sits back in his desk chair. “You fled with the king’s prisoner against my order and the order of the Iron Throne.”

“Aye,” Jon nearly gasps it, “I did. I’ll make no attempt to deny my actions.”

“You disobeyed your lord father.”

“I could not let Theon suffer the same fate as I. And forgive me, but I would do it again.”

Jon gulps, disbelieving his own words. He had not come to reignite grudges with his lord father. Nor to reaffirm his treason. But his temper is still easily roused on the subject of those men who decide whose death is a crime and whose death is a justice. 

“Well, whatsoever your actions, you are here now, and I am glad for it. We can talk at further length on it all, if you decide.” Jon blinks. How can Father so summarily overlook his actions? “What brings you here this afternoon? Is there something pressing we must speak presently?”

“I wanted to ask after the Lady Greyjoy’s gifts. See that they are being well-received and of an appropriate standard. Do the smiths find the ingots to be adequate?”

“Mikken and his apprentices have been inspecting the metals all morning, I’m told. Lady Yara’s gifts appear to be of surpassing quality. The smiths are already drawing up plans for armour and barding.”

“Welcome news.”

“Is calling after crates of metal all that brings you to my solar?”

“I… Well, I have a request to make, if it please you, Father. A gift of thanks that I might return with for — for Lord Greyjoy, in seeing me safe across the sea upon your asking.” It is foolish to stumble over mention of Theon, but Father’s face turns curious.

“Oh?”

“Aye. I make this request without his leave or knowledge. It is my idea entirely. May I suggest that it would show goodwill and friendly relations between the North and the Iron Islands to bear acknowledge Lord Greyjoy’s… his personal accommodation during his time in Winterfell.”

For a moment, Jon sees in his father what Robb must have seen the morning after they fled. A flash of anger, of affront and offense. He has pushed too far. 

“If perhaps,” he hastens to amend, “you do not wish to extend that gratitude, I — I understand —”

“No,” Lord Stark interrupts with a waved hand, “no, apologies, Jon. I believe you have the right of it. Diplomacy is a shadowy sort of game and, I suppose, you have a better knack for it than I would have imagined. Might I assume that you already have an idea at what sort of gift might please the Greyjoys?”

Hesitating, Jon affirms in a nod. “He — he’s a fine archer, Lord Greyjoy,” he offers awkwardly, as if Father has not watched Theon train in archery with his own eyes for ten long years, “but wood grows sparse and weak on the islands, as — as you know. Timber of quality is expensive and long-coming. He has not had a well-crafted bow in some years.”

When Lord Stark smiles faintly it surprises Jon. After such a sudden flash of disdain, Father looks so touched. It stuns Jon a moment and he forgets his own thoughts.

“Ah,” Lord Stark says in a newly softened voice, “you wish to have a bow made for him?”

“I do.” Jon can hardly believe his own audacity. “If it isn’t much trouble. Or if not, then at least the lumber, so that I might find a bowyer to craft one myself. Something sturdy, that will last him many years. Made of good yew, or red cedar, or…”

The smile on his father’s face turns nearly wistful, and Jon trails off. Robb had mentioned that speaking of Theon had become nearly forbidden in Winterfell. Perhaps it is too early to ask for a truce between their families. 

Jon shifts from one foot to the other. “Father?”

“I believe I have something far better than yew,” Lord Stark says, drawing slowly to his feet. “If you’ll walk with me.”

Father takes him to the lord’s chamber. Even as a boy, Jon had rarely been inside his father’s sleeping quarters. These rooms were private, even to family. A place where the lord of the castle might rest his head in comfort and peace at the end of the day. A place with a large, warm hearth and thick walls to burrow in for winter. The Lords of Winterfell, and the Kings of Winter before them, had slept in these rooms for thousands of years. Their ghosts seem to cling to the stone.

Once, Jon might have found the furnishings luxurious, even ostentatious. A huge, carved oaken bed, with a down mattress and bear pelt atop it. A dyed canopy above. A stuffed chair by the wide hearth. Silver candlesticks on the mantle. Even a fine woven rug from some far off land laid over the planks to keep the lord’s feet warm. But Jon has seen the Free Cities and glimpsed the decedent tastes of the wealthy lords in the south and across the sea. What passes for luxury and refinement in the North now appears spartan and simple.

At the foot of the bed, there is a large cedar chest. Father bends to lift the lid.

“I was given this as a wedding gift, in Riverrun,” Lord Stark says as he pulls out carefully packed parcels and satchels and sets them aside, searching for something at the bottom, “by a riverland lord. It was meant for my brother Brandon.”

Jon only watches, not daring to risk anything by speaking.

“They like their trinkets in the south,” remarks Father, “they surely do. But more than that, their true delight is in giving them away, and preferably before an audience.”

From the depths of the wooden chest, Lord Stark heaves up a long, narrow parcel wrapped tightly in hide. He lays it upon the bed and beckons Jon over.

“I’ve kept this tucked away for years,” he says and he carefully unwraps the bundle. “Never thought I would have use of it. Seems nearly something like fate, now. Perhaps the gods had it in mind.” 

The last of the wrapping falls away to reveal a stack of cut timber. 

Long, straight beams, each the rough thickness of a man’s arm and twice as long. Jon steps closer to inspect them. The timbers glimmer among their plain hide trappings. The surface of the wood is pearlescent, sumptuous, almost glowing, as if lit from within by its own fire. It possesses a luster like nothing he has ever seen. Liquid honey, flecked with raw gold. A narceous sheen of amber. The wood’s fine grain glistens metallic in the lamplight, as if newly oiled. But when Jon touches one of the beams, he finds them dry. 

“Goldenheart wood,” Lord Stark explains.

“That grows only in the Summer Isles.”

“Indeed it does. A native treasure. It’s timber fashions some of the finest bows in the world. I’m told the swan ships are defended at sea by bow alone.

“Exporting the timber is forbidden,” Jon stammers, as if he were not touching the living wood this very moment.

“It is, but southern lords will have their finery.”

Jon withdraws his hand. “You offer them to me, my lord?”

“I do. I have no use for them.”

“Father…” Jon falters, struck dumb by the gesture. He must retain decorum. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing else. They are a gift.”

“My lord, you have my true gratitude for this. I will see to it that Lord and Lady Greyjoy are made aware of your generosity.”

“Jon.” Father lays a heavy hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You needn’t be so formal. I give this to you as a gesture to my son, not as tribute between houses. Whatever you do with it, I only hope you find it serves your needs.”

Do not be placated, Jon tells himself. Do not let Father buy appeasement with a pile of chopped wood. Theon has trusted him. Lady Greyjoy has trusted him. To represent their interests. Jon is not here as Lord Stark’s son. He is here as an emissary of the Iron Islands. A dignitary of House Greyjoy.

But it is difficult. Jon imagines presenting Theon with a newly-fashioned bow of shimmering goldenheart wood. His heart soars.

“Thank you, Father.”

Lord Stark bundles the timbers back in their hide. “Shall I have a bow designed? There is a bowyer known to me in White Harbour whose work is unparalleled. As I recall, Lord Greyjoy prefers to shoot from horseback, yes? I will ask for a recurve bow, with a horn grip. Though I think it shall not be complete before you depart back to the Iron Islands. When it is ready, I’ll have it sent to Pyke.”

Astonished, Jon can only nod.

Securing the timber back in it’s hide wrapping, Lord Stark replaces the other parcels in the chest. 

Jon swallows and finds his throat parched. 

Then, the horrible silence returns. A companion that occupies airless space between them. The unspoken woman who haunts them both. Daring not to ask first, Jon balls his fists at his sides. 

He never has thought his father a timid man, but if Jon did not know better, he would name Father’s countenance nervous. Lord Stark turns to the leaded window, his stern face unreadable. In the distance, the scarlet canopy of the heart tree is just visible over the walls of the godswood.

"I know what it is you came for, Jon.” Lord Stark acknowledges after a moment’s reflection. “Your patience is due to be rewarded. This afternoon, before the feast, we shall go riding together on the moor, and once we're far from the castle, I'll tell you all about your mother."

Jon must hold back a gasp. "As you say, Father."

Lord Stark turns and smiles a rather unhappy smile at him. "Go don your riding gear. Someone shall come fetch you to the stables in an hour or so. And I shall tell you all I have promised."


	13. Jon

They leave through the hunter's gate with a party of three guardsmen. Jory Cassell and two young men that Jon does not recognize by name. The household guard now don their winter armour: ringmail shirts, vambraces of plate lames, and cloaks of grey wool. It has not snowed yet this season but the air is damp and chill with the first overtures of winter. The breath of their horses steams over the land.

Lord Stark rides in the lead. Jon trails just behind. Their guardsmen flank them on either side and Jory surveils from the rear. Jon dares not look, but he is certain he feels the captain’s contemptuous glare on his back as they ride on. The meek bastard boy in him wants to apologize to Jory, but the man in him knows that the captain of the guard would find Jon's pity a greater insult.

In silence, they follow Lord Stark over the rolling moors. To keep steady, Jon squeezes the reins in his hands, much to his mount’s annoyance. The horse tosses its head and huffs when Jon’s grip becomes too punishing. He pats the animal’s neck in apology. At least he is not stiff and cumbersome like he had been on the road from Torrhen's Square. He can ride with some dignity among his fellow northmen.

And they ride for a long while. Through foggy dells, skirting the edges of the wolfswood. Past mossy stones carved with old runes. Dark, lonesome sentinel pines tower over their path, the tops lost in the mists. Crows caw and peck at the ground, turning up worms and tussling with one another. Sooner than he'd like, Jon is no longer able to recognize where they are venturing. At one time, not long ago, he knew these lands like he knew his own name. They had once been as familiar to him as breathing. All the hidden deer trails and moss-laden stumps and ways through the bracken fern had been vital, treasured knowledge discovered through hours of play and adventure. 

Now, through the gloom, Jon is not sure he could even find the way back to Winterfell.

Why Father insists on taking him so far from the castle, Jon does not know. There are no spies in Winterfell. How portentous could his mother’s name be that he would not even speak it within its walls? 

Perhaps Lady Stark had insisted. Perhaps she will not permit the woman's name be said in get household. She has kept out of sight, and Jon doubts that he will see here before he departs. He is glad of that. 

They break from a copse of yellow birch and Lord Stark pulls up his mount. “Jory, if you and your men will await us here.”

“Lord Stark?” the young captain of the guard questions. 

“Jon and I shall continue on alone, just further over the hilltop. We won’t be going far.”

Jory’s face hardens, and he glances at Jon with open suspicion. “As you say, my lord.”

Jon swallows. He wonders if the guardsmen know — or have guessed. Perhaps they all have wagered coin on the identity of Jon’s mother.

Lord Stark rounds his horse. “Come along, Jon.”

Urging his own horse to a walk, Jon follows his father up the low hill. Not even Lord Stark’s most loyal guardsmen will be permitted near the truth. A bead of chilly sweat rolls down the back of Jon’s neck. For all the suspense, the year and a half of anticipation, suddenly there is only a foreboding weight of dread in Jon’s chest. A lifetime of wondering is about to come to an end. All the possibilities Jon had ever dreamed up, all the women he had ever imagined to be his mother, soon they will be gone forever. Condemned to only be the sad imaginings of a lonely child. Soon there will only be one woman. And, unexpectedly, Jon feels a certain grief over that. All those possible, imaginary mothers, they had each been their own sort of comfort to him as a boy. 

But still, his patience is waning. 

Together, Jon and his father crest the flat hilltop. The wide and wild North rolls forth before them, sombre and unbound and sprawling. The grey streaky sky looms over the landscape. Low clouds heavy pressing down from the sky. He feels terribly small.

Lord Stark dismounts without a word. Jon follows. Father leaves reins of his mount over the pommel of his saddle. Quietly, he stands and pats the neck of his horse for a moment. Then he turns and strides across the heather, gazing over the land.

Jon tends the horses. He throws the reins over a low shrub of heather to keep them from wandering. When he turns, he sees his father, standing with his back to him like a pillar of granite, gazing out over the moorlands. Lord Stark is not an especially tall or strong man, but he had always appeared as mighty as an oak tree to Jon. With his great grey cloak and mantle of wolf’s fur, Lord Stark appears like some ancient king of the First Men, stoic and immoveable, born and part of the very land itself. It is as if Jon were looking a thousand years into the past.

Inside, Jon wants to shake his father. Wants to scream. _Tell me_ , he shouts in his heart, _please just tell me!_

He draws beside him on the hill crest. The ground of soft moss silences his steps, but Lord Stark knows he’s there. Jon thinks he might know where every creature is in every corner of this land.

Jon stands beside his father, gazes out over the North, the sweeping heath that carries away into the low, dense fog. The world is silent, save for the churning wind, murmuring over the heather and broom.

Next to his father, Jon waits.

Lord Stark does not look at him. Only stares unblinkingly out over the wilderness. He seems to be far away, staring off into some entirely different place and time.

“You were born,” begins Lord Stark in a solemn voice, “in a small tower in Dorne.”

It’s more than Jon has ever known. He struggles to breathe.

Father continues, “I missed your birth by mere hours, I am told. Perhaps less. For most of my life, I have striven to be without regrets, but that… that I was not there for your birth is something over which I harbour true grief.”

Jon’s mother is Dornish? There had been rumours. 

“Had I arrived earlier,” Father goes on, still staring out across the land, “perhaps I could have done something. Helped somehow. Changed what happened. But more like than not, it would not have mattered at all. But I shall never know. Such things are not known by us, only by the gods.” He stops, exhales sharply. “I have not thought on that day in some time.”

Again, Lord Stark pauses. He exhales, breath steaming on the wind. It seems to be a struggle for him to find the words. 

Jon waits, mouth dry.

“Everything I have done, I would do again. Would do it the same. I do not apologize for it, and so I cannot begrudge you the things you will not apologize for. It was not easy, and it was not always fair, but it was the only course I saw to take, the only one I could live with, and so it is the one I chose. It was my decision; no one else’s. Whether it was the wrong thing or the right thing, it was solely my doing. And it is mine alone to answer for.”

Beneath his great cloak, Father folds his arms. He looks to the ground, brow furrowed. Theon always said they look alike.

“Jon, I have lied to you. Not only have I kept the truth from you, but I have made you believe that the truth is other than it is.”

Father does not lie. “Then what is the truth?”

“The truth is that you are not my natural son. You never have been.” 

“Wh — Father, what do you mean?”

“From the day you were born, I claimed you as mine to conceal your true parentage. I feared that you would be killed if I did not.”

Jon isn’t breathing. “W— what?”

“Because the truth, the real truth, is that you are not my son, but my sister’s son, Lyanna Stark. She died in the childbed, just soon after I found her.”

His first instinct is to deny it. Call Father a liar. A cold blade of dread runs Jon's chest through.

“She was being held in that tower in Dorne under the protection of the Kingsguard, on the orders of the crowned prince—”

“No,” Jon half gasps, half stutters, “no, no, no, no, no—”

“— because she was carrying the prince’s child.”

Jon's knees buckle, and he finds himself collapsed to the moss. It cannot be. It is a mockery, a farce. 

He feels ill. He doubles over on his hands. Damp, plush moss rends apart in his grip. His stomach wrenches like he is being gored by animals. Vision spinning, Jon must close his eyes in order not to faint. It cannot be true. It cannot be.

What an endless fool he is. 

Father reaches for him, kneels next to him on the ground. A gloved hand lands on his shoulder, and Jon, scrambling, clings to it.

"Be still, Jon," a warm, steadying voice instructs him and Jon wants to bolt, "you’re alright, lad. Be still."

Jon is panting like he's been sprinting for miles but he cannot gain his breath. His chest burns and freezes and burns again. Cold, slimy sweat runs down his scalp, pools on the back of his neck. The world spins beneath him. He _is_ going to faint. He's going to die.

“Steady, Jon,” commands the voice. “Breathe.”

“Say it isn’t true,” Jon rasps, “please, Father, say it isn’t true.”

“Oh, lad. I am so, so sorry for it. But it is the truth.” 

Jon’s frantic breaths become sobs, and he weeps. Crumples to the ground. Lord Stark holds him tightly in his arms, strokes his hair like he did when Jon was a boy.

Out on the heath, crows caw, black darts over the heather and broom. The world is still and quiet. Rain threatens to break from the skies. A chill wind churns and wuthers like a wild god dancing madly overhead. The endless, endless North, extending to the horizon in every direction. Jon has never felt so insignificant. Not in all his life. He thinks he might melt away into the very air itself. Vanish, forever.

Some time later, he gets a hold of himself. His sobbing abates, though the tears do not. Jon wipes at his face, trying to gain his composure. Lord Stark makes no comment on his state, and that is perhaps what comforts Jon the most. 

He tugs off his glove to scrub at his eyes. “I am… I am…” Jon could not say it. _An abomination. A child of rape._ How did Lord Stark look at him every day of his life and not kill him?

Jon wants to burrow into Lord Stark’s arms. Wants to be a child once more. Never wants to face any of it ever again.

He forces himself to breathe. Then again. And again.

“How do you not hate me?” Jon weeps.

“None of it was your choice. It was all our doings. Mine, Lyanna’s. Prince Rhaegar’s. You were innocent. You _remain_ innocent. Whatever else, you share in no blame for it. Not for any of it. I could never hate you, Jon.”

“I am the cause of the war!” Jon cries. “The war that saw this country burn. It was because of me! Men burned because of me. Your father and brother, murdered by the Mad King. I am a madman’s child. A raper’s child.”

Lord Stark hugs him close. “You are not.”

Jon is running out of protests.

“Your mother, Jon, she did not live long.” Lord Stark’s voice is quiet but steady. “There was a fever, and the midwives... they could not stop the bleeding. She was weak, and fading by the time I got to her. But she had me promise her, with her dying breath, that I would take care of you. Because if Robert Baratheon knew of you, I do not know that he would have spared you. Even as an infant, he may have put you to death. And your mother knew it too. With her last act, she pled for your safety. And so I swore to her, to my little sister, that I would protect her son’s life to my last breath.”

With a sudden, cool breath of air, Jon understands. “She was not raped.”

“She claimed not.” For a moment, he says no more, contemplating. Jon’s ears are ringing as Lord Stark searches for whatever else he is about to say. “She told me your name. The one she had chosen for you.”

“Please, do not tell me now,” Jon begs quickly, before Lord Stark says it. It is a strange feeling that overtakes Jon, then. An immediate smothering revulsion. His Valyrian name.

A nod. Father understands.

“Gods, so I — I am —” Jon sputters.

“A Targaryen. A trueborn Targaryen. One of the last in the world.”

“ _Gods_. And… and an heir to the...”

Lord Stark exhales. Looks down at the ground. His hand squeezes Jon’s shoulder through his glove. “Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne by right of conquest. He is the rightful king, crowned by the Faith.”

“And would the king still have me killed if he learned of my parentage now? Am I still a threat to his rule?”

“I cannot say,” Lord Stark admits. “After the sack of the capital, the king was pleased by the butchering of Rhaegar Targaryen’s two children” — gods, his brother and sister — ”but he has left the other children of the Mad King in quiet exile across the Narrow Sea for more than ten years now. He does not imagine that they could ever raise an army to depose him.” 

“But _I_ could?!”

“I cannot speak to it. But it was Rhaegar the king hated. More than anything.”

For stealing away Lyanna Stark.

Jon grips his head in both hands, wrenches at his hair. He cannot make himself breath steady. His body feels as though it is not his own. Maybe he really is going to slip away. Dissolve into the wind.

“Come, lad,” Father coaxes, taking him by the arm, “let’s get out of the dirt.”

He pulls Jon to his feet. Both standing, he cursorily brushes the twigs and dead leaves from Jon’s cloak as if he is a child returned from playing in the woods. 

Jon only stands there, struck dumb.

There’s a bright pounding behind his eyes. Wind chills the bleary tears on his face. He dabs at his cheeks with the back of his glove. Blinking, the dreary light piercing his head. 

“All this time,” Jon rambles, “all these years, I couldn’t understand it. Why you never told me. I tried to imagine... if it was out of pride or shame or duty. I could never understand… why it mattered so much...”

“You bore it bravely, decently, even as a boy. I know that it wasn’t easy for you. That it hurt you to be denied answers. You never said, but I knew.” Father turns away. “When I first brought you to Winterfell, I could carry you in one arm. You were so small. All black hair and searching eyes. This precious gift that all the world was already against. And mine alone to protect. There were no walls high enough, no holdfast strong enough, no army large enough to keep you safe from all those dangers. So I knew I must keep you with me always in Winterfell. And I prayed… I prayed to the gods that you would be at home here, loved and wanted. That you would never be lonely or shunned.”

Jon presses his eyes shut, remembers in an instant every single moment he had ever felt lost in Winterfell.

Father strokes his shoulder. “But I know that prayers did not make it so. Wishing did not undo the lie. And as you grew, there were days where you seemed so lost to me, I thought I might never retrieve you. Until one day… I couldn’t.” 

“You did,” Jon coughs, “you did, though. My lord, you found the only thing that would have brought me back here and you used it.”

“Jon—”

“They all warned me. The ironborn. They warned me that if I came to Winterfell, that you would not let me leave. But I was a fool —”

“Enough, Jon. You are mistaken. You will not be held prisoner.”

“ _Why not?_ ”

The shout echoes endless in over the heath. Crows break from the tree tops. Jon’s heart plummets. His throat stings with the force. In all his life, Jon does not think he has ever truly shouted at his father. Has he lost his mind? 

They stare at one another for a haunting moment. Neither seem to know what to do.

Then, Lord Stark regains himself, assumes the mantle of Warden of the North once more. “My oath to my sister is fulfilled. You are a man grown, now, Jon. A fine and capable man of the North. Honest and strong and loyal. And you have made your allegiances clear through your actions. They are yours to face now, whether they be a boon or a bane.”

“No, I don’t believe it,” Jon persists on his mad adversarial raving. “You _never_ let me leave Winterfell! You said it yourself: you would not send me to foster anywhere, not even to your most loyal vassals. For years I talked of joining the Night’s Watch, but you would not permit me to go. And yet now? Now that I have betrayed your order, the _king’s_ order, disgraced your house and name before the Seven Kingdoms, you would host me in your hall and allow me to leave untroubled? Return to my traitor keepers?”

“I would.”

At a loss, Jon laughs. A broken bark of laughter, like that of a man stabbed.

Lord Stark allows the outburst to pass uncommented. “When you had fled to the Free Cities, Jon, I too defied the king’s order to offer you safe passage to Winterfell. But you refused, and instead went to the Iron Islands. A wiser move, in the scope of things, I acknowledge it. The ironborn have welcomed you and granted you their protection. You were unreachable there. Nothing at all compelled you to leave the safety of Pyke and answer my request other than good faith. And yet you came. That alone is a brave and worthy act. I will not reward your trust with underhandedness. You are free to go whenever you please.”

“After what you’ve told me here? I am simply free to go? I am Rhaegar Targaryen’s son!”

“Aye, you are.” 

“My whole life, you kept this from me. You called me bastard.”

“I did.”

An image flashes before Jon’s eyes: looking out the window of a tall tower over the sea, chasing two older siblings down red sandstone halls: a tall skinny girl with dark hair, a small silver-haired boy. Learning to ride and hunt in the royal wood. Attending court before the Iron Throne. A life that might have been his. Snatched away.

Jon tastes blood. The tendons of his jaw pop and ache from clenching his teeth. He had bitten his tongue. In his gloves his hands are shaking.

Lord Stark continues, "I had intended to tell you once you were of age. It was too great and dangerous a secret to lay on a child's heart. I had thought once you were grown, you would understand the risk and the importance of heeding caution. But, of course, you departed Winterfell before I was able."

“So you ask that I tell no one now?”

“No, I do not. You are a man grown, now. I have released the truth to you. It’s no longer mine to instruct you on what to do with it.”

Rage crackles in Jon’s shoulders. Every fibre and tissue. “All I would need to do is tell someone. Have ravens sent to the southern lords in their holdfasts, and I could plunge this country into war. With nothing I could undo all your years of peace.”

A disappointed expression crosses Lord Stark’s face. That most dreaded dismissal. “Maybe so.”

“You don’t think I would do it?”

“No, Jon, I don’t.” Lord Stark’s patience is nearly patronizing. “Once you’ve spared it a moment’s thought, you will realize that it would be folly.”

The sickening realization blooms in Jon’s chest. The truth that will keep him gagged. Father does not have the gall to speak it aloud. For the first time since he’d seen Winterfell again, Jon feels true shame. Feels stupid and childish. Feels like the whore they all think he is. He cannot meet his father’s eye.

“ _That_ is why you will let me return to the Iron Islands. You… you _knew_. You knew that I was trapped either way. You know what the realm says about me now. What enough of them say. _The Greyjoy whore._ What your own bannerman called me, it would stun you. What they _offered_ to do to me. If I were to reveal myself now, I would be the laughing stock of the Seven Kingdoms. A deluded bastard whore with aspirations of the throne. I have disgraced myself so utterly, no one would want to seat me on the Iron Throne now, dragon’s blood or no. So you have nothing to fear. I can go play the harlot to the turncloak, and my mother’s promise is of no more consequence.”

“That is not—”

“ _You would deny it to me?_ ” Jon snarls.

Lord Stark blinks, withdraws. 

“It was never my intent to hold you prisoner in Winterfell. All I ever kept from you, Jon, I kept from you for your protection. Winterfell has stood for thousands of years. It’s roots are deep and it’s walls are high. It seemed to me that if I could keep you here, then I could guard you from all of it. The unfair fate that awaited you. And for a time, I could. It is a father's duty to protect his children. But now you are grown, and have shown me that you will do as you please, no matter what I say.”

"You let me disgrace myself before the world when you alone knew what I stood to lose."

"It was not I who let you do anything. I had no knowledge at all of your plotting. If I'd known of you and Greyjoy, I would have put an end to it."

"Of course you would have!" Jon is shouting once more, fury spilling out of him. "You could not allow me even that! The comfort of someone who did not measure me against your reputation. Someone whose love was not mediated through you. Someone just to myself."

Lord Stark blanches at the remark.

Bold, Jon dares, "Are you disgusted by me, then?"

"No," Lord Stark states firmly, no longer in retreat, "not disgust, Jon. Not over this."

"Then what?"

"I pass no judgement over... whatever sorts of company you prefer. Only that your chosen companion pressed you into deceit and put your very life at risk for it."

"It was I that pressed Theon into it," Jon retorts.

A wince passes over Father's face, but he looks away and allows it to pass. Lord Stark cannot be goaded into bickering, and Jon feels foolish for having tried it.

He breathes; he must remind himself to.

"So then, though it was my plotting, it would seem that I have forfeited your love and your protection under false pretenses."

"You could never forfeit my love, Jon." 

“And now all the realm knows me for my scandal.” Jon buries his head in his hands. “The lord’s bastard, run off to be a traitor’s pet.”

“I am truly sorry that this is the way it came to be, Jon.”

Jon barks a cruel laugh. "I am my parents' child after all; half whore, half madman."

Lord Stark freezes; a still sort of shock overcomes him. Never in all his life has Jon been so certain that his father was about to strike him.

Shamed, Jon looks away. “I did not mean it.”

Lord Stark only stares, a cold fury smoldering on his face.

“Forgive me, my lord, please. I did not mean it."

Exhaling a breath of steam, Lord Stark dismisses with his wrath. He turns away. 

Jon is a disgrace, pitching a tantrum like a child, insulting his lord father, slandering his mother. But his chest is a roil of poisonous fire; a furor burning in his very marrow. His ribs strain with every breath, holding back scream after scream. He must get a hold of himself.

But the loss is too staggering. He can hardly trust his own thoughts. His whole life, a fraud. Not an unloved bastard, but prince of the realm. What might have been, had he known? Even if the throne was lost to him, even if it was necessary that he be raised in Winterfell, how different might the world have appeared to him had he just known?

But Jon is no southerner. All he's ever known is the North. He has never known command or led men. How can he yearn for something that was never his? 

Easily, it would seem.

As a boy he had dreamed of being Lord of Winterfell. But the Iron Throne? Even thinking of it now, the idea is absurd. He cannot even grasp the idea in his mind. It slips away from him like fish through water.

Would he not have been content in Winterfell? Knowing, but never venturing south? Would he have been content in the knowledge of his parentage, knowing that he was loved and wanted and noble by birth?

“You hid my name to preserve the peace?” Jon asks in a weak voice.

“Peace on all sides,” answers Lord Stark wearily. “You have never seen war, Jon. The things men do to each other. They abandon their honour for wickedness and for savagery. And those that pay most dearly for the lords’ wars are the innocent. Women, children, the smallfolk. Those we are meant most to protect and defend. The rebellion burned and bled the south. Thousands of men perished, if not in battle than from the winter famine. Some were old men, could barely ride. More of them were only boys, younger than you are now. Mothers sold their children for loaves of bread. I had seen children butchered. Women violated. Once a man knows war, he will endeavour to prevent it if he can.”

“I never wanted — never asked — if I had known, I would have… I would have...”

"Aye. But I would not risk my sister's trust. When the gods deal us a hardship, we can either rise to meet it, or we despair. There is nothing else. I did not ever expect to be Lord of Winterfell. It was a duty thrust upon me. And I have done my utmost to carry out that duty fairly and justly. I would not despair and let my brother and father be murdered in vain. I would not let you be lost."

“My mother… my mother was dead and cold but I was alive and hurting. Why did her wishes matter more than mine?”

“A father cannot allow his child to play with a serpent, no matter how much the child begs. It is a father’s duty to protect his children, even if it means to deny them.”

Jon presses the heel of his palm against his eye to stem his tears. "Father, what should I do?"

"I cannot tell you what you must do. The choice is yours, as are the outcomes."

"Please. Please, Father, I am lost. I am so lost. If ever I have needed your guidance, it is now. Do I go south? Do I set out across the Narrow Sea to find my aunt and uncle? Shall I remain hidden forever, and live and die as your son?"

"You could do. Any of it. Tell me true, do you want the Iron Throne?"

What does Jon want? "I — how could I? I was never born for rule. I have never imagined it. Never dreamed of it. How can I want a thing I have never known?"

"Most men do. They long for power, whether it is in the form of swords or coin or sway. With power comes wealth, and safety, and a full belly, and fires for winter. To most men, it is worth nearly any risk. Power is a bitter medicine, I have found; a little inoculates, and too much kills. It compels men to awful things, but it can allow them to be wondrously good in turn. It depends on the time and it depends on the man."

“And am I that sort of man? Who could shoulder the weight of the crown and not be destroyed?”

Lord Stark breathes. "You are a fine man, Jon. I cannot say if you would make a fair king."

"If I... if I went south, and declared for Throne despite all sense... would you stand for my claim?"

Lord Stark is silent for a long time. "It would be foolhardy. You have never known war, Jon. And it would be a long and bloody war for you to take the Iron Throne. You may die in the attempt. Those you love may die in the attempt."

The words are plain. If Theon were to support his claim, Jon would be risking his life.

"But all that said," Lord Stark goes on, "you are the rightful Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne, by the laws of gods and men. You are my sister's son, who I have sworn to protect. If you declared for the Iron Throne, the North would stand with you."

“You would?”

“I would proclaim it was folly with every step, but I would defend you.”

A shock spreads through Jon. He had not imagined that. The king is Robert Baratheon, Lord Stark's dearest and oldest friend. Together they had waged bloody war to sit Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne. Would Lord Stark do it again on Jon's whim? Jon is nearly moved to tears.

Lord Stark stares out over the heather moors. "Greyjoy, he is good to you?"

Jon blinks. "Yes."

"Right.” Father clears his throat. “If ever he stops being, you will always be welcome here."

The burning pain in his breast swells, as foolish as it is. Lord Stark wants only to extend a safe haven to him, but instead it lands on Jon’s ears as foreboding. Would Theon stop being good to him, learning who he is? The thought had not occurred to Jon. Theon has promised his love a thousand different ways.

But words seem as thin as air now. All his life, he was told he was the natural born son of Eddard Stark, and he is not. If one truth can be so easily undone, what else? Theon is a good man to him. Loyal and true. But his own people see him a turncloak. Surely if Eddard Stark is to lie to him, Theon would, as well.

The idea does not settle long in his mind. It slips away. Snowflakes falling in a warm pool. He cannot hold tight to anything.

Lord Stark pats his shoulder, “Wait here a moment, lad.” 

He turns and strides off down the hillside aways, back towards where the guards await them. From his belt hangs a horn. When he takes it up, a lowing drone rolls through the air. The familiar call that rouses the hounds on a hunt. At the sound, Jory appears on horseback from below the slope and he and Lord Stark confer for a moment before Jory wheels his mount around and rides off.

Lord Stark informs Jon as he returns, “They will bring us a tent and a night’s firewood. And a meal for the evening. If you’re agreeable, then we shall spend the night out on the heath, away from any prying eyes, and we can talk as long as you like.”

"We shall miss the feast," is all Jon can think to say.

"Never mind it." 

The campfire roars mightily. They sit on either side. Blankets and furs are spread over the ground beneath to protect their legs from the damp earth. Jory and the guardsmen had erected a small tent and brought bedrolls and furs and brought a pot of warm stew from the kitchens. 

Ladling a spoonful of leeks and turnips into a bowl, Jon sips quietly at his meal. Food helps. It sits warm and comforting in Jon’s stomach, grounding. For a moment, he nearly feels solid again.

Twilight alights on the landscape. The crows caw their evening song and fly overhead in large flocks, returning to their nightly roosts in the forest. In turn, nimble does and their wobbling fawns venture from the bracken to graze and drink from the many little streams of the moor in the safety of the gloam. Above, the cloud rack and fog turn dusky lavender to indigo until at last the darkness cleaves in around their torches and cookfire. From their little hilltop, even Winterfell reveals itself; the torches in the tower windows making the castle spottable, even at their great distance. 

But Jon feels safe. Here, even out where wolves hunt and bears are known to roam, he is unafraid. When Lord Stark is with him, Jon feels brave. Always has. Braver than he has felt in some time. 

All his life, he has only wanted to be brave like his father.

His father, his true father, was he brave? No coward he was, surely, facing Robert Baratheon on the field of battle and dying in the waters of the Trident for it. But Jon wishes he knew more.

Jon asks about the rebellion and Lord Stark tells him. Of calling the banners, of marching to Riverrun, of wedding his own dead brother’s bride. Of the war camps and the battles. Of the sacking of the capital. Of dead Targaryen children.

Jon asks of Lyanna Stark and Lord Stark tells him of her as well. Of the young wolf-girl, half-wild; a sylph of the North, more at home barefoot in the dirt and trees than playing as a lady. Spending her days wrestling with her brothers and riding through the woods. A more headstrong and untamed girl the North had never seen.

Jon asks about the tourney at Harrenhal and Lord Stark talks of that at length. It had been only time Father had ever met the crown prince in person. Rhaegar Targaryen, Father says, had been at turns a fearsome and kind man, preferring his harp and his books to a sword. Mercurial, as all Targaryen’s are, prone to profound melancholies and soaring moods. At the tourney feast, Eddard Stark had watched as the young prince performed for the gathered lords on his silver harp so sweetly that Lyanna Stark had been brought to tears by his song. And later, when Rhaegar Targaryen had prevailed at the joust, he had forgotten his Dornish wife and lain a crown of blue winter roses in the lap of the Stark girl before all the noble lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. The moment still staggers Lord Stark to speak of.

After they can no longer talk any more of Rhaegar Targaryen, they talk of other subjects well into the night. Alternating between reminiscing of Jon’s childhood days and tales of his journeying in the Free Cities. 

Their fire burns down. Lord Stark adds another log and stokes it back up. Owls call in the darkness. Overhead, little bats swoop and dart over the flames.

Many times they lapse into silence. Jon’s mind wanders back to Winterfell, down to the crypts where his mother’s bones rest. Her granite effigy with its passive gaze. So many times he had walked by it. Tears are all wrung out of him, but a thorn of sorrow pricks Jon heart to realize it, that all this time, his mother had awaited him patiently beneath his very feet.

So much he wishes he could ask her. Why the prince? Why the war? Why did she not tell anyone? All the lives that could have been spared. All the bloodshed that need not have occured. 

But what good does wishing do?

Lost deep in thought, Jon doesn’t realize that Lord Stark is watching him from over the cookfire. His eyes are soft, and a rare, small smile creases his face.

“My lord?” Jon questions with some worry.

Lord Stark waves his question off. “Just an old man’s reminiscing. I am told I am a pensive sort. But I watched you grow from a babe to manhood these past sixteen years. Every day I worried over you. And many nights as well. And, despite our quarrel over Greyjoy, I could not have hoped for you to grow into a finer man, Jon. Know that, no matter where you go.”

To keep from weeping again, Jon must bite his tongue. He hides his face in his stew. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You have honour,” Lord Stark insists, “and yours is the hardwon kind. Not granted to you by name or house, but the kind you have forged for yourself. On your own deeds. And I am proud to see that in you.”

All his life he has waited to hear those words from his father. Now, it all comes too late.

Lord Stark watches the flames climb. “There have been times, I know, where I have been more a lord than a father to you. At times, I tried to be both and perhaps failed to be either. But do not let my shortcoming convince you that you are anything less than a son to me. Whether you ever forgive me for this or not, I hope that in your heart you at least know that much,” Father says, swiping at the corner of his eye. 

Moved beyond words, Jon returns to his meal in silence.

Sounds of the night grow. Logs burn down to red coals in the firepit. It soothes him, lulls him. Weariness pours over Jon. His temples pound and his neck aches and soon his head is drooping, eyes closing. Fatigue is rapidly mounting. This day has ravaged him and it is all he can do to keep his head upright now. 

"Might I ask you something, Jon?"

Why would Father ask permission? "Of course, my lord."

Lord Stark contemplates the fire for a while. It jumps and dances under the stars. Patiently, Jon waits.

Lord Stark exhales. He looks up at the night sky. "Had you known… Had I told you of your parentage beforehand, would you have left with Greyjoy?"

Jon closes his eyes, sagging under the question.

How could he say? If he had known as a boy, would he have been so eager for Theon's attention? Had he those answers at the time, would he have so readily given up everything for boyhood love?

He doubts. And that rends him. The thought of giving up Theon for a name and a crown makes Jon feel like a traitor.

"I cannot say." He wipes at his eyes. "Honestly, my lord. I… I do not know."

"It is not to question your loyalty that I ask, Jon. I am only wanting… to evaluate my own decision in keeping the truth from you for so long."

Jon shakes his head. "I wish more than anything that I could know with certainty. That one thing would have made all the difference. But… I was so young when I felt outcast from Winterfell. A child of five or six years. Before Theon was ever brought there. Only a little older when I was first… drawn to him." He wishes the moor would open up and swallow him alive.

Lord Stark only hums and glances away. 

"Would you have confided the truth to me so young?" Jon questions, praying his voice does not betray his mortification.

"No," admits Lord Stark, "I would not have."

"Then I cannot answer."

They lapse once more into silence. Jon is relieved. Being questioned by his father — by Lord Stark has always been enervating. 

Then, not long afterwards, Jon starts to weep again. This time, he’s not even sure why. His body throbs, and his head pounds. The splitting shock of it has flashed out and burned down into a low, ceaseless pang of sorrow. Perhaps he has at last gone mad. Lost his wits of the revelation. He cannot remember what his life had been before this moment. He’s sure he had been someone, once, but it all feels false, unreal. He tastes sick on his tongue. Lord Stark reaches out to stroke his back.

As Jon’s breath hitches with the end of a sob, Lord Stark offers quietly, “Come, let’s get some rest.”

For some reason, it leaves Jon feeling hollow. He clears his throat. “Might I ask a favour of you, my lord?”

A pause from Lord Stark before replying, “Go ahead.”

There will never be another time for it. Jon finds his courage. “You should tell your lady wife the truth. After I am gone, of course, but… it would mean a great deal to her, I think, to know the truth.”

He manages to say it without screaming. Jon counts that as a victory.

But much to his frustration, Lord Stark is unreadable as ever. Part of Jon is disappointed at that. But he had spoken for the truth and not even the gods could find fault with him for that. 

“Aye, I may,” Lord Stark answers. “That has… been weighing on my own heart for some time.”

Would Lady Stark cry in shame? Beg Jon’s forgiveness? No, Jon thinks. She would have to live with her mortification, though, and perhaps that would be enough. 

Lord Stark directs him to his bedroll. Jon does not protest. He is not sure that he could command his voice to speak. The tent is warm and his pallet dry. Nearly senseless as his head hits the cushion, he cannot bother to remove his boots or gloves. He sinks into his simple bed like a stone dropping through water. His father draws up the wool blankets around his Jon’s chin, tucking him into bed as though he were a child. 

Perhaps when Jon wakes it will all be a dream. A horrid dream that will be forgotten as he shakes sleep from his head. And when he wakes, Theon will be there to laugh at his silly fancies of being a lost Targaryen prince.

“Rest well, son,” a warm voice murmurs in the dark.

Defeated by exhaustion, Jon can not find the strength to reply. But if Father is here, he will be protected. The damp scent of moss and woodsmoke comforts him, familiar and close. As if he could be an animal burrowed in its den. Safe and hidden. Sleeping away the coming winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone was very eager for _the reveal_ , so here's an extra chapter this week.


	14. Jon

The morning he leaves Winterfell, Jon prays in the godswood.

It has been two years since he had been within the godswood and while that seems to Jon to be a hefty length of time, the moment he sets foot beneath the ancient canopy, it is apparent that the holy forest is utterly unchanged. The red weirwood and its old gods have occupied this land for a thousand years, as immovable and resilient as a stone. The very earth of the godswood is made of the former trees that once stood where their children now stand, decomposed into rich black loam. Each subsequent generation fed on the last. The godswood was so ancient, not even time itself could degrade it. Two years have been absorbed into the lush, majestic woodland as a single drop is absorbed into the ocean.

No, it is Jon that is different. It is he that time has affected, permeated. 

Do the old gods recognize him? Do they see him through the eyes of the weirwood, as Old Nan claims?

Alone, Jon kneels before the heart tree. The low, heavy limbs soar upwards. Red hand-shaped leaves spread throughout the canopy. The carved face on the trunk is, too, unchanged, still staring ahead unblinking, weeping hardened lines of red sap.

Jon bows his head. In his heart he asks for strength, asks for insight, asks for peace. He prays for a short winter and for his siblings to be healthy and happy. He prays for the farmers and the millers. He prays for the people of the winter town. He prays for his Uncle Benjen of the Night’s Watch. He even prays for Ros.

Before him, the old snarled roots, worn smooth above the soil, buckle and scoop the earth, creating hollows and burrows within the moss. A cozy sort of shelter where animals would hide. Red leaves fill them, lay strewn beneath the limbs. Jon touches the ground with his gloved hand. It had been here, just here, that he had lain with Theon for the first time. It had been the culmination of their odd and tumultuous courting. The start of what would eventually lead them around the world. The impulsive decisions of boys.

Had the gods been watching then? Had they watched him lose his heart to a foreign trespasser? Did they know even then what lay ahead for him? Did they know even then what he is? 

With his prayers done, Jon stands. The woods are quiet. He stares at the carved face of the heart tree impassively. It offers him no answers. He inclines his head and follows the ghostly branches up into the thick red canopy, then the grey sky above.

Turning, he leaves the godswood as he found it.

The time for his departure arrives sooner than he had thought. Last night he had packed his belongings and retrieved his travel clothes freshly washed. His party means to depart early and make use of the light. They are awaiting him in the yard; his horse had been retrieved and tacked. The carts are loaded with the promised provisions. The guardsmen are mounting and readying to ride.

Lord Stark comes to see him off, as does Robb. Jory Cassell and Maester Luwin also make up Lord Stark’s party. The kind old maester smiles when he sees Jon, his chain looping over his shoulder. 

It is nothing as formal as when Jon had first arrived. Decorum is abandoned, firstly by Robb. 

Robb hugs him close before the open gate. There are tears in his blue eyes, but he holds them back undaunted. 

“You must write to me, Jon,” his brother orders, “when you have the time to spare.”

“I shall.”

“And Theon as well,” Robb insists. “He will be loathed to do it, I know, but you must compel him to send me word now and then. Before the winter makes sending messages too arduous.”

“As you say.” 

Strangely, Jon knows he ought to be grieved to be bidding farewell to his brother, but he cannot bring himself to focus. He is like a stone. Dead and insensate. For days he has eaten little and slept too much. He has spent whole afternoons with Robb and cannot remember them. Emotion seems lost to him, out of reach entirely, and in its place a hollowed out cavity by his heart.

Assembled in the yard is his party of mounted Tallhart escorts, ready to see him promptly back to Torrehn’s Square. Cold, tired, they grumble atop their mounts. Though they dare not act too impudent before their liege lord. A groom holds Jon’s own horse tacked and ready as he bids his farewells. 

It is only Lord Stark and Robb that have come to see him off. Lady Stark and her other children are not present. And though, of course, that is to be expected, it pains Jon to not have been permitted to see his other siblings. They must have all grown so much over these last two years. Arya has sprung up like a weed. And Sansa, she was always tall; she must be nearly a woman by now. Bran will be having his first lessons with a bow. Little Rickon will be learning to ride.

But Lady Stark had not relented. Surely she refuses to have her littlest children presented to a known bastard catamite. And truly, Jon cannot hate Lord Stark for allowing that; he knows what his reputation is now.

Still, to not see them before winter will be painful. Shaken as he is, he dare not press his luck. 

“Perhaps I shall come visit you at Pyke,” Robb rambles, “again, if the winter is not too punishing. You’ll show me the fierce seas and towering longships he was always going on about.”

Jon cannot imagine Lord Stark ever letting his firstborn son anywhere near Pyke. “Lady Yara would be most glad to host you, I’m sure.”

Robb smiles in that earnest way of his that makes Jon feel unworthy. “Listen now, Jon, I’ve never been skilled with knowing what is the proper thing to say. And there are times, I know it, that I diminished you. And it took you absconding away to notice it. I did not realize the gift I had when I had it. But I’ll say it right to you this time, lest I don’t get the chance again. You are my brother, as close to me as anyone has ever been. I’ll proclaim it before the world. My strength and my love are yours, always. Whether you go to the Wall or the Summer Isles or across the Narrow Sea, it will always be yours. Don’t forget the North out there with your ironborn comrades.”

 _Brother_. Jon presses his eyes closed. “I shall not. Thank you, Robb.”

Robb hugs him tight one more time, kisses his hair. “Farewell, Snow.”

“And you, brother.”

He is truly Lord of Winterfell, is he not? It ripples under his boyish face, like dormant, hibernal lands before a thaw. Holding on the precipice of maturity. Ready to ascend to the rightful place of his ancestors. Everything Jon had always dreamed of being. Robb has it all.

If he had been born a prince of the realm, raised in the shadow of the Iron Throne before kings and princes, would that poise and assurance have been Jon’s instead? He cannot imagine it. Cannot imagine a version of himself that is not shaped by bastardry. To remove it would be to remove the integral parts of his heart. 

Perhaps one day he will tell Robb. Hopefully by that time, Jon has decided what to do with it.

Lord Stark steps forward and embraces Jon as well. “Everything I have said I have meant. Every last word. Winterfell will always welcome you, no matter how far you wander.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Take care of who you trust, always. Do not place your confidence in lesser men; it is a mortal mistake. And it is fewer men than you think who are truly trustworthy. Be shrewd, be deliberate. Keep your counsel close. But if you have determined a man to be a true confidant… then he is the greatest sort of ally.”

Jon nods, “Of course, my lord.”

“It is not expected of a high lord to justify his actions to anyone but his king. And I have rarely been called to justify myself to others, but find that I often must to myself.” Lord Stark nods as if to himself. “The choices I have made, I made them knowing that the world is not better than it is. In my heart, I wish men were better. That they spoke plainly and honoured their words. That they would be without underhandedness and cunning. But that is not how the world is, and wishing will not make it so. So be prepared, Jon. Do what you may to make the world fair and just, but if you do so, know that, then, the world will always oppose you. But, perhaps, that is not a bad sort of thing.”

Swallowing, Jon thinks on that. To be a good man in a harsh world is still to be a good man, is it not? But how much good can one man do alone? It doesn’t seem nearly enough.

Lord Stark’s eyes soften, and he drops his voice to volume for only he and Jon to hear. “Whatever you choose, you are courageous, and you are kind, and your will is strong. Never let them say that you are without honour. I surely will not. Your birthright, whether you choose to claim it or not, it cannot confer more worthiness to you than you already possess.”

It’s nearly too much to hear at once. He must not shrink under such adulation. “Yes, my lord. My many thanks, for your understanding. And your hospitality.”

Smiling, Lord Stark sighs. “Be safe upon the road. Your guard—Tallhart’s men—do keep them in check. Otherwise, remind them of their oaths and allegiances.”

Jon flushes. “I shall do my utmost.”

“Some men warm to good humour, others a firm hand. The trick is in determining which prefers which.” Father says it like it’s meant to put him at ease, but it does not.

There is a roiling anxiousness in his gut instead. So much he should say, but cannot wield the thoughts into sense. Perhaps he should stay. It is too great a revelation to take alone all the way back to Pyke. He should stay, and become the bastard of Winterfell once more. 

But Theon promised it would be war. 

War if he stays. War if he goes.

There is a sudden and fierce commotion then from across the yard. Before he can look over, something collides with Jon. He staggers. Nearly falls back in the dirt. A small, heavy attacker grips him around the waist, knocking the air from his chest and for an instant Jon is certain he’s been stabbed.

But his mind clears and when he looks down, he can see only a messy mop of dark hair buried in his clothes. 

“I don’t want you to go!” Arya’s cries are muffled in his cloak. “You can’t go!”

“ _Arya!_ ” Furious, red-faced, her septa comes marching across the yard. A few of the Tallhart guardsmen chuckle at the sight.

“Last time I didn’t get to say goodbye!” Arya hollers, clinging to Jon’s legs with all her feeble might. “You left without saying goodbye!”

Dropping to his knee, Jon sweeps up his little sister in his arms. Skinny like a reed, she all but vanishes in his grip. Squeezing his eyes shut, he doubts. He ought to stay. Go catch frogs with her in the godswood pools.

He pulls back. Takes her face between his hands. Her big, dark eyes are full of tears. “Be good for your mother,” he instructs.

“Let me come with you!” she insists.

Jon shakes his head. “You cannot, little sister.”

“Please!”

“Arya,” Lord Stark’s harsh command silences them both.

She turns and looks up at their father. His face is as stern as ever, displeased, that look of horrible disappointment for all to see. Ashamed of her father’s reprimand, Arya hangs her head. The hem of her grey woolen dress is muddy and damp.

Flustered and sputtering, the girls’ old septa reaches them at the gate. She hastily tucks a loose tail of her disheveled veil away. “Arya, you are not to be out here! Oh, my sincerest apologies, Lord Stark. She darted away from me in the corridor. I could not catch her. I’ll see that she is sent to bed without supper and that she is taught a lesson of this disobedience.”

“That won’t be necessary, Septa Mordane.” Lord Stark’s gaze is fixed upon his young daughter. Within Jon there is a sudden urge to hold her back, shield her from their father’s wrath. But he long ago gave up the right to interfere with Lord Stark’s household. 

Standing from the mud, Jon rests his gloved hands on Arya’s narrow shoulders. They shall face it together, whatever their father’s reprimand.

But Lord Stark is only silent for a moment as he regards them both. Then, “Arya, say farewell to your brother.” 

Spinning, she throws her arms around Jon once more. Jon’s eyes sting in the cold air. Bending to press a kiss on her head, he blinks it away.

“I shall miss you, sister,” he murmurs into her hair.

Arya only sniffles. 

“Be brave now.” He tilts up her chin and smiles at her. “I shall write to you, and you can write back. We shall see each other again. I promise it.”

She swipes at her eyes, ashamed to be seen crying. “Alright.”

“Go, now.” Jon urges her back toward Father and Robb and Septa Mordane.

Sheepish, contrite, Arya stands before them in the mud.

“Septa, take Arya to her bedchamber,” Lord Stark directs in a steady voice. “See that she stays there until I come to speak with her later this evening. And that she has tidied and arranged all her belongings in the meantime.”

“Of course, my lord.” She takes Arya by the hand and leads her back to the keep.

Watching as they depart, Jon regains his dignity. He rights his clothes. Straightens his back. Returns Lord Stark’s gaze steadily, only glancing briefly at Robb, who had observed the whole interaction with a melancholy amusement. 

But Lord Stark only gives a beleaguered sigh. “She has been difficult since you have gone.”

“You have my gratitude for permitting us our farewells.” 

“Her lady mother was adamant. But Arya saw to the problem herself. As I should have foreseen, perhaps.”

“Will you permit her to write to me?”

Lord Stark smiles, nods, “I think I shall. Awaiting letters would be a good lesson in patience for her.”

Jon smiles. This is how he hopes to remember Winterfell. Not fleeing in the night from the dungeons. But his siblings, his father, each of them in their place.

He mounts his horse and leaves through the gate, praying he can preserve that memory in his heart for all of winter. 

The ride back from Winterfell happens as if in a dream. Jon is not sure if he says a single word the whole return journey. Around him, the North at the start of winter is still, and white, and quiet. Like the inside of Jon’s head, buried in the cold, hibernating like an animal. Up on his horse, the world appears to him as if through a lady’s mirror, gauzy and glimmering, and it does not feel to Jon like it is real. He feels remote in his own body, lost, though he can see the Tallhart men riding on the road alongside him and knows exactly where they are going. 

He is glad that his horse walks for him. Jon does not think he could manage it.

Despite the thin snowfall, the road is navigable, muddy hoofprints and cart tracks churning a dirty path through the new white snow. When the woods thin out and the glossy lake of Torrhen’s Square comes into view nestled in the pine-blanketed foothills, something sinks hard in Jon’s chest, but it is unknown to him why.

The mast of Theon’s ship is visible from the road. That heavy sensation in Jon’s chest worsens. All he wants is to go to him, hole up in their cabin together and shut out the world.

Theon and his crew are standing with banners flying on the quay to greet him. Young Wex stands at Theon’s side. 

Things are less tense between the ironborn and Jon’s northmen escorts, but the two groups still eye one another warily as they deposit Jon back into Theon’s care. 

There is no dark expression on Theon’s face, though. He is beaming, dressed in his fine, black, leather brigandine and oilcloth surcoat, never looking away from Jon for an instant, even when the northmen address him. Though he smiles, Jon can see the exhaustion plain on Theon’s face. Dark rings cloak his eyes and he has gone unshaven in a few days, making him appear gaunt. Sleepless nights have haggard him. Distantly, Jon is concerned.

Mercifully, the handover is brief, the two parties eager to be finished with one another and out of the cold, and Theon takes Jon aboard. He opens the door to their cabin, and when Jon steps inside it’s as if he can breathe at last after gasping and choking beneath ice. Their things are where he had left them, awaiting his return.

How strange, that returning to Winterfell had made him heartsick and mournful, yet returning to this little ship’s cabin that he’s known little longer than a month is a comfort, a refuge.

Even here, though, Jon’s mind is far afield. The horrible truth presses down on his throat, his heart, so fierce and consuming that all he can do to withstand it is turn away. Slip away within himself. Benumbed and deadened, the land in winter, beneath the snow.

Jon goes to the windows that overlook the stern. The glass is thick and rippled. Not much can be seen through them. Only vague, warping shapes of light and dark. They allow in only light for the captain’s cabin. But Jon stands by them and stares as if he were looking out over a churning sea or vast landscape, consumed and distant.

He does not hear Theon come up behind him, but he does not flinch when gloved hands stroke up his hips, his arms, encircling him tightly. Theon presses his cheek to Jon’s shoulder and holds him.

“It is good to have you back with us,” admits Theon in a small breath, then, shifting to nose behind Jon’s ear, “I’ve missed you.”

Absently, Jon reaches back and touches Theon’s hair, not looking away from the bubbling window panes that show a rippling world beyond. Leaning back against him, Jon says, “And I you.”

“Yet you are far away from me,” Theon chuckles, tracing a finger down Jon’s jaw. “You have not so much as looked at me. Was the journey so hard? And... Winterfell?”

Jon shuts his eyes. He cannot discuss that.

“I’ll… I’ll not ask, then. It’s not my concern, I suppose.”

But it is, Jon thinks madly. How can he begin to tell him that?

Squirming against him, Theon prods further, dissatisfied at being dodged, “What is the matter? Tell me, what do you need, Jon?”

If he could have managed, Jon might have laughed. What does he need? He has never known less. 

“Take me hard,” he rasps.

The hand clenches tight in his clothes, wrenching, holding him close. Behind him, Theon grinds his hips forward and Jon can feel how hard he is already. Theon’s other hand comes around and grips Jon’s throat, lightly stroking, tipping his head back. Jon lets his eyes slide closed. Warm breath against his neck. 

“Too long. It’s been too long,” Theon murmurs, tugging at Jon’s clothes, “gods, if you ever leave me again, I’ll go mad. Never again, Jon. Do you hear me?”

Rough, clever fingers tear the laces of his doublet open and Theon’s hand reaches up under his woolen tunic, groping his flanks, his chest. It feels peculiar to Jon. The touch he has grown so acquainted to fails to rouse or move him in the slightest. Jon can hardly notice. His mind is still flung far away over Winterfell. He is nowhere near his lover pressed right against him, gripping him close. Theon might as well be groping a doll.

It is not a surprise when Jon finds himself thrown on the bunk. Standing, Theon strips off Jon’s breeches, opens his legs and lays between them. Hands knead and tear at the flesh of his thighs, his hips. Jon knows, he _knows_ that this should do something to him. It should kindle that fire in his stomach, like it used to.

But it doesn’t. Between his legs, something hard and slick breaches him. Jon doesn’t so much as wince. Distantly, he remembers what it all used to feel like. The growing heat, the hunger, anticipation. The mild pain that grew into a sweet and throbbing pleasure. The want of it consuming his breath, his very heartbeat. But here, now, Jon cannot focus himself to the task. All he knows is the sight of the wooden beams overhead.

Then, Theon is inside of him, hard and deep. That does not stir much in him, either. Theon folds over him, head hanging by his ear, breath heaving hot and damp on Jon’s skin. It’s uncomfortable. A hand snatches at Jon's hair. Leather armour chaffs at the inside of Jon’s thighs.

It is rough as it is hasty. Like he had asked for. Afterwards, Theon flops down beside him on their bunk, breathing hard like a horse. One strong arm thrown over Jon’s chest, he tucks his face right against his neck. Jon remains on his back, still staring overhead at the beams of the low ceiling.

Theon stirs after a moment of quiet basking, blinking back into focus. “Jon? You’re so quiet.” He rises up on his elbows. “Did I hurt you?”

Jon shakes his head.

“Then what’s the cause of this state you’re in?” Theon turns Jon’s face gently to look at him. “You seem like you’re about to fall to tears.”

“No,” assures Jon, “no, it’s not that. It is only… I am weary from travel. The cold is bitter, and the roads are slow going. And a fortnight in the saddle has left me sore.”

Theon frowns. “Then why did you ask for it like that?”

To force his body to feel. To forget. He cannot say any of that, but what else could explain it but the truth? Jon is a terrible liar, Theon always says.

“I needed it,” Jon breathes, pressing his face into Theon’s, and it is not quite a lie. "I needed to… to be reminded. That this is where I belong. Where I want to be.”

Something so warm and fond crosses Theon’s face, then, and he leans forward to kiss Jon’s cheek, “Never doubt it for an instant.”

They lay together a while longer before Theon gets up and fixes his clothing. He had hardly undressed at all, so hasty they had been. Jon remains abed, tangled in the linens and furs, wishing he could burrow away. He has one arm still through the sleeve of his doublet and his woolen tunic rucked up under his arms. He should redress as well, so his clothes do not rumple, but he doesn’t. Only lays sprawled on his back where Theon had left him.

It hadn’t helped. Letting Theon ravage him had only left him as hollow and bereft as before.

Perhaps Theon should call in young Wex from outside the door, let Jon see what it is like to take a boy’s virtue from the other side. And if that does not cure him, Theon should let the rest of the ship’s crew have him, one after the other, or all at once, even the ones who hate him, even Aelfon Codd, the wiry old sailor with rough skin and bloodshot eyes who had grabbed Jon below deck, groped him and hissed in his ear that he was a mainlander slut. Even him. Jon would not resist.

His own thoughts should shock him, but they don’t. Nothing moves him. Jon thinks he might have lost that part of himself.

Theon pulls on his gloves. “We are sailing this evening before the river refreezes,” he says as he rebelts his sword and dagger to his waist, “I’m needed on deck to see us cast off. After, will you tell me about how it was in Winterfell?”

No, never. How can he?

But Jon feigns a small smile, and Theon kisses him again, slow and gentle this time, and leaves for the decks.


	15. Theon

Jon does not get out of bed for four days.

On the first day sailing down the river, he claims he is too sore to get up. Horseback and a rough fuck has left him aching, and Theon suggests he take the day to recover his strength, regain lost hours of sleep. He had left Wex in the cabin all day to tend Jon and gone up on deck alone.

The second day, the ship makes good time, and they gain the wide estuary with the bay beyond just as night falls. Jon claims seasickness. Time on the mainland had unaccustomed him to the rocking of the ship, he says. He refuses all food. When Theon instructs Wex to stay again, Jon protests, saying the boy is more use on deck than down in the cabin playing nursemaid. Theon does not argue.

On the third day, upon the open sea, their ship catches the fearsome tailwind on the edge of a late autumn storm. The crew cheers and offers thanks to the Drowned God for the favourable conditions, tossing coins and plundered trinkets into the waves and pouring their tankards of ale over the railing.

Theon asks Jon to come join the celebration. The sea is alive and swelling, gulls wheeling about the masts. From the bow one could watch the keel carve through the foamy waters, flying along the surface. The crew would be pleased if their Northern passenger paid tribute to their god. 

But Jon declines, turning over to face the planks of the bulkhead. 

By the fourth day, Jon offers no excuse at all.

Helpless, Theon retreats to the galley. He has Wex fetch a few charts and maps and arrays them over a trestle to appear busy. How humiliating to be chased from his own captain’s cabin. What sort of ironborn man is afraid of a quiet room?

Wex trails after Theon like a shadow, often tugging his sleeve to get his attention and trying to convey something, but any further communication is often lost on Theon. The boy is worried about Jon, that much is plain. The two of them are close, now. Jon has always shown him such kindness and patience. Pouring over the navigation charts with disinterest, Theon is idly watching Wex flutter about in the dutiful way he does. If he keeps busy enough, then perhaps nothing is wrong. 

Together, they pretend to avoid the predicament. A boy might find it a sufficient strategy, but Theon’s justification is somewhat more pathetic.

How can he risk driving Jon further from him?

Just get him safely to Pyke. 

As Wex refreshes the inkwell, it occurs to Theon suddenly that Jon had been teaching him letters before departing for Winterfell. He has not noticed the boy practicing in the times they’ve been ashore, but then, his mind has been occupied with greater matters. Curious, Theon grabs Wex’s wrist before he can flit away.

“Oi, Wex. Did… you have been practicing your letters all this time, yes? Like Jon was teaching you?”

Eyes going wide, Wex beams and nods.

“He showed you how to write your name, yes?”

Again, Wex nods earnestly.

“Right, well, here. Show me how you’ve managed.” Theon instructs.

Wex takes up the quill from the trestle table and very carefully inscribes the three letters of his name in the corner of a scrap scroll. Done, he presents it proudly to his captain and Theon cannot help but be amused at his uncontained glee. 

“Aye, nicely done,” Theon assesses. The lettering is even and steady though still lacks the confidence of a literate hand. “You’ll be taking my letters in no time at all. Shall we go show it to Jon?”

The thought seems to occur to Wex as Theon asks it, clever thing that he is. Wex bounces on the balls of his feet and nods again, taking hold of the scroll he has scribbled on. 

Theon’s heart livens. Surely this minor victory will get Jon to smile, at least. He has such camaraderie for fellow bastards. 

“Alright, off with you then. Let us see if we can get him up. He’s certainly had enough sleep. Enough for ten men.” He gets to his feet and gives Wex a gentle nudge. 

Wex doesn’t seem to notice or care that Theon should have no cause to go with him, only leads his captain proudly aftward through the hold. The boy scurries so quickly across the deck that Theon has to jog to keep up, but Wex still waits patiently at the door for Theon to arrive.

When they enter the cabin, Theon’s heart falls. Having not moved all morning, Jon is still a lumpen shape in the bunk, tucked so close to the planks of the hull that he is a barely visible bundle under Theon’s quilts, his hair a tangled nest covering his face. Not on his most sullen days in Winterfell did Theon ever see Jon in such a state. 

Theon shuts the door behind them and gestures for Wex to go to him.

Crumpling the paper slightly in his hands, Wex picks his way over to the bunk and nudges Jon’s shoulder gently.

Without a sound, Jon waves him away. 

Wex looks back at Theon, unsure, and Theon mimes to nudge him again. “Just wake him up.”

Chewing on his lip, Wex stirs him again. 

This time Jon only pulls away from the touch. “Not now.”

Theon grows frustrated just watching him, but Wex only seems encouraged to hear Jon’s voice and waves the marked paper in one hand, poking Jon’s shoulder with the other.

“Gods, enough, leave me alone!” Jon snaps at last, throwing his hand out, only just short of striking Wex across the face.

Stunned, Wex jerks away from him, clutching his folded scroll to his chest. 

Realizing his provoker is Wex, Jon’s recoils. His eyes land on the paper Wex holds, the practiced letters scrawled widely across the edge. 

“Oh —” he reaches for Wex, but the boy flinches, and Jon looks away, ashamed. 

Theon comes quickly to Wex’s side and guides him the short distance to the cabin door. “Here, give it to me,” he murmurs, taking the crumpled scroll. “You’re dismissed, Wex, alright? Collect the maps and charts from the gallery and store them away. Bring back some fresh water for the wash basin and stay in your cabin afterwards.”

The dejection on Wex’s face softens even Theon’s heart. So eager the boy had been to share his progress with his one and only friend. Theon cannot help but ruffle Wex’s hair in an attempt to comfort.

“You’re alright, Wex. Don’t pay him any mind. He’s… I don’t…” He lowers his voice, bowing slightly so that he can look Wex in the eye. “He’s not been well, right? Since Winterfell. I’ll take him to the galley for a hot meal. You’ll be relieved when you return.”

Eyes bleary, Wex bobs his head, trying to hide his face, before scurrying from the cabin. Theon watches him leave before shutting the door and returning to Jon.

The silence is a greater offense to him then a blow from a fist.

“I do hope you’ll make amends to the boy,” Theon chastises as he sets the scrap of paper down on the desk. Wex’s crinkled script faces him. “You’ve crushed him. He’s been practicing night and day to show you. After all, it’s better to foster loyalty and devotion than resentment. Like you say.”

Provoking Jon is futile. Jon only shrinks further in the blankets, sniffling.

Theon kneels on the floor, resting his elbows on their bunk to lean close to Jon's head. “Have you eaten?”

Silence is answer enough. A sour resentment sets burning in his throat. But he gently brushes a black curl from Jon’s face. He looks so pale that Theon lets his fingers rest against Jon’s skin to assure himself that he’s alive.

“Some food will do you good, I think. Come with me to the galley.”

“I’m too tired,” Jon protests, pulling away.

It stings. Theon swallows back the urge to grab and shake him.

“Aye, due to not eating the past three days, most like,” Theon bites, trying to keep the anger from his voice. “Come on, Jon. You must get up. You cannot spend the whole voyage in this shoddy bunk. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“I only wish to sleep,” Jon says softly. “If you are hungry you are welcome to leave me to myself, my lord.”

“Well, I do not wish to be parted from you,” argues Theon, allowing himself to reach out to brush his fingers through Jon’s hair, fretting. “I have been for long enough. Join me, Jon. If only to keep me company.”

Twisting in the quilts, Jon finally turns and faces Theon, meeting his eyes dully. “I fear I am not much company.”

“I don’t care,” Theon argues. “You can sleep in the galley if you so wish. I just want to look upon you and have you next to me. I’ve missed you so, Jon.”

With a sigh, Jon heaves himself upward. “Aye, alright.”

A thrill of victory bursts in Theon’s chest and he smiles, kissing the crown of Jon’s head. 

“Thank you,” he says with a low breath. 

Jon takes his hand with a drained little smile.

Usually, Wex brings their meals to the captain’s cabin, but Theon needs to get Jon out of this tiny room before they both go mad. The galley is a long room with a low ceiling and iron lanterns hanging from rope so that the rocking sea never overturns a lit candle. Some meals are taken together, but most are taken without much audience, a handful of sailors eating quickly between watches before leaving the galley in a rush to catch a few precious hours of sleep. 

It is late in the midday watch when he takes Jon down to the galley for a meal, and there is no one but two older sailors propped up in the corner who look as if they’ve been there all night, and Aelfon Codd nursing a tankard at the farthest table.

Theon dismisses them in his mind. He'll not even give Codd the dignity of his revulsion. A captain may rest and eat where he pleases. He must look and behave like a man who is to be obeyed.

Theon sits Jon down at the trestle table. “Have a seat, I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

“You shouldn’t be the one to wait on me. I’m not hungry,” Jon promises, but Theon ignores him.

At the far end of the trestle two older sailors chuckle to one another. Theon considers if they are mocking their captain for waiting on his bastard salt wife hand and foot but he puts it from his mind. Let them mock. 

He returns with smoked herring and a roll of fresh bread from Torrhen’s Square for each of them but Jon only eyes it with dull suspicion. Reluctantly, he picks at the loaf.

“Eat, Jon.”

With a sigh, Jon relents to a meagre bite. They sit in silence, Theon eating while Jon pretends to do the same.

“You still haven’t spoken to me of what happened in Winterfell,” Theon points out. “Is it news from your father that has you so morose?”

Instantly, Jon winces.

“You must tell me something,” Theon insists.

“Must I?”

"How did the northmen receive my sister's gifts? The wagons made it safely to Winterfell, I assume?"

"Fine. Your sister's goods were accepted happily."

Helpless, Theon changes his approach. “What of your brothers and sisters? Were you able to see any of them, while in Winterfell? Do you have news of Robb, perhaps?” 

“He’s well,” Jon offers flatly. He does not look up from his smoked herring. “He — he misses you. He hopes that you will write him.”

"And nothing more?"

Jon stares off at nothing. "Arya. I was able to see Arya. She… she scaled the wall of the guesthouse to see me…"

“And even that has you so despondent? What has happened, Jon? You have never — I’ve never seen you in such a state before. It worries me.”

“I — I am merely tired, Theon. Forgive me.”

“Do not ask my forgiveness,” Theon snaps, “you’ve not done anything! It’s pitiful. Enough sulking, just tell me what’s the matter!”

Theon raps a hand on the planks of the tabletop. The knock is louder than he means for, and Jon recoils. Cowed, Theon sits back. The sailors at the far end have glanced up at the commotion, and Theon lowers his voice.

“I — I only...” But he has nothing more to say. He _is_ angry, he just doesn’t know what at. Sighing, he puts his head in his hands. If only he knew how to help. Why will Jon not speak to him? Why make this so difficult?

Jon blinks. There is no forgiveness, not even acknowledgement. He turns back to his meal of bread and herring, and nudges a morsel.

“Fuck,” Theon mutters into his hands. He can’t stand this. Even back in Braavos, Jon’s misery was never so great that Theon could not charm his sorrows away. “I'm thirsty. One moment.”

Listless, Jon watches him get up. He hardly seems to hear him.

There is a scream trapped inside Theon, burning to escape through his every pore. It isn’t fair. Jon had promised to return to him, and now here he stands but Theon still feels as if he’s been stolen away. He wants to hammer his fists into the walls of the galley. He should never have allowed this. He knew better. Theon should have kept him close, no matter how Jon resented him. Any animosity would be preferable to this. Jon is gone and this man left to him now is just a ghost. Now he is just a ghost, and Theon is left alone. What news could have possibly affected Jon this way, reduced to hardly more than a doll laying about his cabin? Is it the news he had been promised, the news of who his mother is? Theon cannot imagine any revelation that would cause him such turmoil. Surely it is of no more consequence than it was before? 

Whoever the woman is, it does not matter to Theon. Let her be forgotten, as far as he cares. Whether she was a common whore or a highborn southern lady, her legacy remains the same. Abandonment. Let her be Lord Stark's burden instead.

A small flare of hate for Lord Stark reignites. Theon takes a shaky breath, exhales hard. The Warden of the North knew what the woman's name meant to Jon. Knew that he only need call and Jon would come if it meant knowing. And now the answer has devastated Jon, and Lord Stark has returned to Theon a broken thing. The only thing Theon had ever chosen for himself. Lord Stark ruined it still. 

How much more can Lord Stark take from him?

Theon leans both hands on the rim of the freshwater barrel. His own shadow warps and ripples upon the surface.

Just get back to Pyke. In Pyke they will be safe and tended to. In Pyke, nothing can harm them. They will have their rooms and their things all in order once more. He will have proved some trustworthiness to Yara. Shown that he is worthwhile. He will have earned respect, and all the freedoms that attend it. Perhaps they will visit Ten Towers once more. See his mother, as he had promised he would. Jon can teach Wex to read in his Harlaw uncle's vast library. Theon can just picture them, slouching over some ancient text by candlelight, books piled high around them, tracing the words on the page with a fingertip, having Wex copy lines over and over. Thick as thieves they will be.

That will be enough; Theon can be satisfied. That sort of life, it is enough.

“Theon!”

Jon’s voice is so sudden and piercing that Theon drops his tankard. He wheels around, startled to be met by the red face of Aelfon Codd not arm’s length from him and rushing forward, hesitating only a breath at Theon’s sudden attention.

Before Theon can draw his dirk, Jon surges to his feet. Stepping into the path, Jon lunges. Codd and Jon collide and together they topple to the deck. They grapple and shout before Jon gains the upper hand and forces Codd’s back flat to the deck, a dagger glinting in his hand. 

Rearing back his arm, Jon plunges the knife down into Codd’s chest. 

Aelfon screams, a sound like Theon has never heard before, hoarse yet piercing, like dying cattle, as Jon reels back and stabs him again. Blood flings from the knife tip in an arc. It wells up and seeps through Codd’s clothes, dark and streaky. 

Groaning now—having lost the capacity to shout—the sailor attempts in weak and stilted gestures to push Jon off of him with bloody hands, one bandaged and missing two fingers as it tries to push his attacker away. 

Straddling his body, Jon brings his knife down a third time.

It is the killing blow. Aelfon lets out a low gurgling that is his last breath, but Jon does not stop, letting out a wild scream as he brings the knife down again and again into the limp body, blood splattering. 

Theon feels as if there is no air in his lungs, no air in the galley, no air on his ship. Colours swirl and disappear and his vision tunnels. His mind reels and rejects what he sees. This cannot be. It must be corrected. He opens his mouth to call out for Jon, to tell him to stop, but all that comes out is a gasp not unlike Aelfon Codd’s last.

Still, it is enough to stop Jon, chest heaving as he looks up at Theon. There is blood smeared over his face. Up his arms. In his clothes. It is strange to see his face. Eyes wide with fury as they land on Theon. 

He cannot feel his body. He cannot make it speak. Jon drops the red dagger to the deck and stares down at the corpse beneath him.

“He — he had a knife drawn,” Jon stammers, voice raw as he looks back up at Theon. There’s blood smeared over his mouth, Theon notes dumbly. He wants to wipe it away, but his limbs won’t move. “I saw him. He wouldn’t stop. He was going to… he would have killed you.”

Dazed, Theon looks down at the body himself. It’s an awful sight, and he looks away. Instead he notices the blood pooling on the wooden deck. Mixing with the spilled water from his dropped tankard. Following the grain of the wood. Seeping through gaps in the planks and the pine tar. Swallowing, Theon finally notices the simple knife cast next to Aelfon’s hand, the blood from his body slowly inching toward it.

Theon nods. “He… right.”

“Are — are you alright?”

Theon nods again, though he’s forgotten the question the moment it is asked. He takes a step back, avoiding the blood spreading towards his boots. 

“Right,” he repeats after a moment, hoping it’s a response.

“Theon?”

Blinking rapidly, Theon looks back up at Jon. How is it that he still looks so young? Jon’s hands are shaking, and Theon wonders if he is cold. It doesn’t feel cold. He looks at his own hands, and is shocked to find them shaking as well. Numbly, he clenches them into fists, but it does not still them.

“What else could I have done?” Jon chokes out. In the back of his mind, Theon notes he sounds more himself than he has in days. “He was going to kill you. He had a knife drawn. It was plain on his face when he stood up. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let him kill you.”

Still, Theon can only gawk.

As if from nowhere, the two other sailors from the corner have made their way over, looking the scene over unhurriedly.

“Captain, it was like the greenlander boy says,” one assures. He scratches at his greying beard. “Codd was coming for you fast, lad. He’d been nursing a grudge, since your boy took a knife to him on the voyage last.”

The other man has not spoken, but he nods. 

There is a pounding in his temples. “Right,” he repeats again.

“Steady there, captain?” the bearded sailor asks with far more cheer than Theon finds necessary. “Gone a bit pale. Is that there only just the first time a man’s come at you with a blade?” He laughs, though not an unkindly sound. “A coward’s attack, but what can be said for a thrall’s get, eh? Coming at his captain while his back’s turned. Unmanly and devious.” The bearded sailor spits on the deck. “Needed doing. That boy defended you, captain. True valor, that one. Brave little thing. You are right to keep him close.”

Trying to shake the stupor from his mind, he takes Jon’s arm, heaves him up. Blood is slick and tacky in his grip. For just an instant, his only thought is that Jon may slip away from him; fall out of his hold and fade away. His squeezes harder, and cooling blood squelches from between his fingers. 

Oddly, Theon finds it grounding. He feels his feet holding him upright on the planks once more, and nods to the sailors still watching them.

The silent one nudges Codd’s body with his boot and frowns. “Never liked him much,” he says at last, voice gravelly, as if he seldom uses it at all. Seeing him this close, Theon at last recognizes him, his greasy black hair falling lank in his face.

“Thank — thank you both,” He knows their names — he _knows_ them — but he cannot recall them now, “for your witness. Get… get this body out of here, up onto the deck. One of you, find Dagmer. I want the entire crew assembled before the quarterdeck. Every last man.” 

He does not wait. Theon marches straight out of the galley, bringing Jon firmly by the elbow. The shock within his chest is rapidly cooling into a slick, sparking rage. There is ash smoldering in his lungs. Hot, sour fire. He could choke. The steep ladder to the hatch doesn’t slow him in the least, climbing one-handed and pulling Jon up as well as if he weighed nothing. 

On deck the sky is streaked and grey. The sea air is damp and frigid. A strong wind fills the sails. Around the main deck, the crew are tending the sails, lashing rigging, scrubbing and mopping fresh coats of pine tar onto the planks. A few men halt when they notice their captain splattered with blood, but dare not approach. Most do not pause in their task. 

“Every man before the quarterdeck this instant!” Theon shouts, his voice shaking with fury. 

Then, every man does look at them. 

With Jon in tow, he marches up the steps to the quarterdeck. The boards creak beneath his boots. Below the railing, the men are gathering, murmuring, questioning. Others are fetching those below deck, asleep in their hammocks. Theon must bite back a snarl of rage as he looks at them all scrambling. 

From toward the bow, Dagmer pushes his way through the crew, cursing at men to move aside. 

“Lad, what has happened here?” the old captain calls up to Theon. “They are saying a man is dead!”

“Hardly a man!” Theon yells back.

“Who is dead?” a sailor calls from the crowd.

Theon gestures over the crew’s heads. “See for yourselves.”

From the forward hatch, the two sailors emerge, heaving Aelfon Codd’s limp body toward the assembled crewmen. Murmurs of recognition travel through the crowd. Theon’s heart pounds like a war drum. Blood is drying on his face. His hand itches to draw his sword. Around him, the grey ocean ripples and swells. He can feel it, through the deck, through his boots, in his lungs. The power of the sea, swaddling their tiny ship in roiling coils of water, deep, deep, the endless bottom. He can taste salt in the air, taste the iron of blood on his lips. It stuns him. Madly, he smiles. Never has he felt more powerful.

“Take a look at what happens to those who forsake my mercy!” he cries, gesturing at the corpse ferried through the crowd.

The crew stands back, creating a halfmoon of space around the body as the two sailors lay it on the deck.

“It’s Aelfon Codd,” a voice says aloud.

“Who killed him?”

“It is an ill omen. The Drowned God will curse us.”

“It is murder!”

On the main deck, Dagmer crouches to examine the corpse, noting the many stab wounds, the darkening blood upon the clothes. He grimaces and looks back up at the quarterdeck. Theon licks his lips, chilly blood gumming upon his face.

“What have you done, boy,” Dagmer calls out.

“Silence!” Theon shouts in return. “You’ll not accuse your captain of heresy! Not if you wish to keep what is left of your tongue!”

Beside him, Jon tenses. Below, the crew fall silent.

Chest heaving, Theon maintains the quiet for a beat, two, then extends his arms out. “There is no blood upon my hands. This man you all know. You know what crimes he stood accused of. What he confessed to. Confessed before every man here. A coward, and an underhanded wretch! This man _dared_ to attack his captain’s guest, on his captain’s own ship. Spat on the mercy shown to him. Not satisfied at being permitted to keep his wretched life, he plotted further treachery. Below deck, just now, he attempted to kill his captain while his back was turned.”

A low hum ripples throughout the crew.

Sails snap overhead. Theon gestures to the two sailors. “You there, loyal crewmen. You were witness to this in the galley, were you not?”

“Aye, captain,” the bearded one calls. The quiet one merely nods.

“Tell your crew what you saw.”

The bearded one turns to face his crewmates. “It was as the captain says! The captain and Snow were eating in the galley. Codd, too. He drew a knife and moved to attack the captain. With his back turned! It were a coward’s ploy.”

The other witness nods once more, “Like he says.”

A voice calls from the crowd, “Who killed him, then?”

“Jon Snow did,” Theon shouts, indicating Jon with an outstretched arm. 

He looks over his shoulder. Jon is standing ramrod straight, mouth and jaw coated in blood, eyes fixed to the deck, wide and fearsome. He does not say a thing.

“This mainlander stood between his captain and a traitorous cutthroat and put a blade into his heart. Once, he had seen fit to grant Codd mercy, but no longer. The wolf is as savage as the sea, when pressed, and will defend its pack to the end.”

The crew are silent. The wind nips at Theon’s eartips, chills the blood on his hands.

“Any man here who would question my command, who would take issue with guests permitted on my ship, who scorns my rights as an ironborn, a Greyjoy, son of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, take a look at what will become of you. Any such man may step forward and meet your god this day!”

A tense and morbid silence.

“See what happens to those who would cross their captain. Who would make a mockery of his justice. They are sent to meet our god with haste.”

“What is dead may never die,” several crewmen mutter, placing hands over their hearts.

Absently, Theon repeats the gesture, but does not repeat the prayer. 

Dagmer speaks next, steady one more, “What would you have us do with the body, captain?”

“Give it to the waves,” Theon orders, pointing. “Say whatever prayers you see fit. He was ironborn, and died at sea. He is the Drowned God’s concern now. We offered him all the dignity we might. Sing for his soul, if you like. I’ll not.”

Looking at the men, Theon notices for the first time that Wex is not present in the assembled crew. The boy must be asleep in his hammock.

Theon is grateful for that, at least. Surely the boy has witnessed all manner of bloodshed and cruelty by this age, but Wex likes Jon, and it would frighten him to see Jon savage and coated in ironborn blood. 

The wrath in Theon’s breast abates some at that, flowed out of him and out to the sea. In its place is a swelling calm, a total surety.

Taking Jon by the arm, he leaves. He is done with this. Climbing down the quarterdeck stairs and rounding into the hatch, he leaves them. He does not care who watches them go.

As they descend below deck, Theon hears the men muttering amongst themselves, but cannot parse any words. For the better. He cannot bear to know. Whatever they think, it is done now. He can feel Jon’s racing pulse under his fingers, and it is as if Theon’s heart is struggling to meet it. 

By the time they make it to Theon’s cabin, Jon’s breath is coming quick and harsh. “He was going to kill you,” he protests, breathless, “I nearly saw... but I — I saw him and I couldn’t — I couldn’t let him…”

“Shh, shh,” Theon ushers them inside and shuts the door behind them, “steady your breath, Jon, it’s alright. Breathe.”

It is sickening, that Theon feels relief seeing tears streaming down Jon’s face. Even just with the witness of his own mind, Theon is disgusted with himself for that little surge of comfort. But Jon has been so vacant since he returned from Winterfell. Obscured, like he was kept behind a clouded windowpane. 

Wiping tears and blood from his face on the back of his hand, Jon sinks onto their bunk. 

“I — I thought… He was coming for you, and I knew… knew that it was because of me, and...” Jon swallows, shudders, and finally seems to take in the sight of his hands drenched in blood.

“We must get this coward’s gore off of you,” Theon says, finding he can speak once more. “Wex! Wex, get in here.”

Theon pounds on the bulkhead that separates Wex’s small bunk from their cabin, and after a noisy, muffled clatter the boy appears in the little doorway. The lad’s big, expressive eyes widen as he takes in the sight before him.

“Help Jon clean himself,” orders Theon, “and get him some fresh clothes.”

Wex rushes to his task. He fetches the copper wash basin and a clean rag, sets it by Jon’s feet. Theon gets out of the boy’s way, standing, running his hands over his face, feeling drying blood smear into his skin as he does. How could he have been such a fool, not to have seen Codd? Why did he trust any of these ironborn sailors? Do they all hate him so fiercely?

“I’m fine, Wex,” mutterss Jon hoarsely, “none of it is mine.”

Theon will never know how Jon always is able to tell what the boy means with his frantic gestures and expressions.

With jerky, choppy strokes, Wex wipes the blood from Jon’s face and neck. Jon suffers it gamely, still regaining his even breath. There are a few streaks still caught in Jon’s beard that take some scrubbing to remove, but he waves Wex away to gather him new clothes. Wex places them down on the bunk and helps Jon remove his doublet and tunic, so Jon does not bloody his hands once more.

“Alright, Wex, leave us,” Theon interjects when Wex tries to help Jon dress. “Check — check on the crew on deck. Help Dagmer, if he has any need for it. If anyone isn’t doing their damned job report back to me.”

Wex nods, but as he turns to flee the cabin, Theon realizes, and grabs his wrist.

“And don’t… Wex, if you hear anyone on deck speaking of what happened, don’t — don’t believe them. I’ll explain to you the truth of this later.” 

Again, Wex nods. He looks at Jon again, but Theon is relieved to see he looks more concerned than frightened. Theon releases him and in the next instant Wex is gone.

Theon and Jon are once again alone. Aelfon Codd’s blood clouds the water of the washbasin at their feet. Jon inspects the fresh tunic Wex had left him, as if judging the choice of colour or style. Absently, he sets it back down, and Theon can feel exhaustion coming off of him in waves as he kneels in front of him.

“Jon…” Theon feels in awe of him, suddenly. “Jon, look at me.”

He does.

“You saved my life.”

“Of course I did. I — I had to,” Jon whispers in a distant voice. He seems to notice for the first time, the blood spray on Theon’s face and hands. He grabs the rag hanging off the side of the wash basin and swipes it over Theon’s skin. “I had no choice. It was because of me he held a grudge. You didn’t even notice him.”

A half-mad laugh bursts out of Theon then, so loud that it makes Jon jump. “I didn’t — no, I didn’t.”

“Your men, they saw me. They saw me… I killed him. I killed one of their own. Gods, now they’re all going to… to think… they musn’t think...”

“To think what?” Theon shuffles closer to Jon, using his sleeve to smear a fleck of blood away himself. The privacy of their cabin has him focused. “To think that you defended your captain’s life? That you killed a traitor? You had every right. They even said so. Swore it in front of their crewmates and the gods. This makes you a man now, by our custom, remember?”

Again, Jon blinks back tears. “I thought… you could have died. I almost lost you. I almost _watched_ —”

“Shh, hush, Jon, enough,” Theon interrupts quietly. 

Jon crumples, slumping into Theon’s chest. He’s trembling like a leaf in Theon’s arms. Remembering the panic of finding those thieves on Jon back at the White Knife, Theon holds him tight. He knows the fear pounding in Jon’s bones, the way his vision is swimming, the way his body is fiery hot and how it feels as if nettles are in his lungs. 

Swallowing, Theon reaches up and takes the rag from Jon’s hands, setting it back into the pinkish water of the washbasin. “When we reach the shore, when we’ve returned to the Islands, I’m… I’m going to find a priest.”

Jon pulls back. “What?” he asks stupidly, “why?”

“I’m going to wed you.” 

For a moment, Jon only stares at him. Dark eyes wide and harrowed. “No. Don’t be a fool.”

“Aye, too late,” Theon answers. “Don’t be upset. I’ll still take a lady wife and breed heirs, just as you and Yara both wish of me. I’ll be good to her. As good as I am able. But you’re — I want you. First. Please.”

“We can’t...”

“We could. It would be our secret. I’d find some poor drowned priest to swear secrecy, and it — it can just be for us and the gods.” 

“No,” Jon manages wetly, “no, you don’t understand…”

Tears are welling in Jon’s eyes faster than Theon can brush them away. “Oh please don’t cry,” he whispers, “I thought it would make you glad.”

“I am glad,” he murmurs, muffled against Theon’s neck. “I am.” He does not sound glad, and Theon cups Jon’s nape to try and steady him. “I — I only…” Jon takes a deep breath, and it tickles Theon’s skin. “I am glad,” Jon repeats, softer this time.

Theon takes the back of Jon's head in both hands, tilts his gaze forward. Captures his focus. "For you, Jon. For you, I would do anything. To me, there is nothing of consequence in the whole world that does not include you. I'll not face any of it without you. This life or the next, if indeed there is one. And I'll bind your heart to mine however I can before the world tries to pull me apart from you. With the god’s help or without."

Jon squeezes his eyes shut. Dark lashes clumped with tears.

Theon cannot help but kiss them.

Whatever happened in Winterfell, it has not stolen Jon from him completely. Theon will bring him back, whatever it takes.

The rusting stench of blood still clings to Jon, and Theon sees him again as he was down in the galley, blood splashing over his hands and face as he claimed the life from Aelfon Codd. Jon is such a gentle thing at heart, but in that moment he had been a killer. A killer and nothing else. For Theon’s sake. A sick thrill churns in Theon’s blood, but he ignores it, pressing a kiss to Jon’s temple.

Sniffling, Jon buries into him. “The — the men said it… it was a curse. They’ll think I've cursed you, and your men. Your ship… your god will curse it all because of me. Killing — killing Codd like that.”

“No, no,” Theon whispers, idly rocking Jon against him. “It is superstitious nonsense. Sailor’s gossip. To keep crews from fighting. Pay it no mind. Codd did nothing but curse his own death. You saved me. You _saved_ me.”

“And if your men do not see it that way?” 

“They will. They _do_. You heard them. They’ll be singing songs of you by nightfall.”

Silently, Theon kisses Jon’s temple again, running his hands over Jon’s arms in an absent attempt to warm him.

He cannot tell if it is Jon who is cold, or if it is simply that Theon’s own blood is burning within his skin. His body feels made of fire, desperate and hungry. He disgusts himself, the growling need stewing in his mind. He feels himself trembling with the longing to have Jon take him, forceful and cruel, laying claim. Just as Theon has paid the iron price for Jon, so now, Jon has done for him. It is mortifying to find that he wants nothing more than to serve him now, lie back and let Jon take him as a wife. 

Horrified as Theon is by his own wants, he puts them from his mind. Sick thoughts of a feeble, panicked mind. It feels as if Jon has not been so close to him in months. And now he’s here, pressed against him, warm and alive. Theon can feel his heartbeat, hear his breathing, and for the first time in days, he feels real. 

Jon squirms to wrap his arms around Theon’s neck. 

“Forgive me,” Theon whispers, breath toying with his hair.

Hiccuping, Jon pulls away to look at him, brow furrowed no differently than it was when he’d been a pouty child. “Why should you beg my forgiveness?”

“My promise to you is a mockery. I’ve put you in so much danger.”

“I asked to be here. This was not you,” mutters Jon. “This was — was…”

“I know who it was,” Theon says, voice with an edge. “The filthy raper wretch deserved such an end, I hope you know that. Do not feel any guilt over it, not for a moment.” Theon runs his thumb gently over Jon’s chin. “I know Codd frightened you. I… gods, I wished he’d never set foot on this damned ship.”

“He did not frighten me,” Jon admits. “I am not frightened of anyone, when I have you.”

It pierces through Theon’s chest like a poisoned arrow. Sweet boy that Jon is, he never lost it since they were children: the capacity to look at so cruel a world and still find the heartening things. Always looking at Theon as if he were worthy and capable. 

When Wex returns to the cabin, they are still sitting embraced together. The skinny boy looks momentarily startled to see such blatant affection and moves to leave the cabin once more, but Theon waves him in. 

“Wex. Come here.”

He hesitates, but comes to Theon’s side. 

“Wex, bring Jon a meal and fresh water. Perhaps ale for his nerves. Or dreamwine, if there is any.” He looks down and sees the bloody water sloshing about his wash basin. Nudging it with his foot he adds, “And change that out, would you?”

Nodding, Wex reaches for the basin, but this time it is Jon who starts, and grabs Wex’s hand.

“Wait.” His voice is suddenly firm and resolute. “Wex, my apologies. For earlier.”

A startled huff leaves Wex’s mouth, but he nods, and takes the wash basin in both hands and hefts it out the door.

Theon watches him leave before letting the breathless laugh leave his own mouth. “When I said you should apologize to him, I hadn’t expected you to take me so seriously.”

Jon shrugs. “You were right.”

Dagmer takes control of the ship, and Theon only leaves Jon’s side once to be seen by his crew, pacing the deck, but saying nothing to anyone. When Wex brings food to the cabin, Jon at first refuses, but Theon insists. It is plain that Jon is ready to faint at any moment. Theon remembers his waned appetite after slaying those northern thieves, remembers how his stomach churned sour at the sight of food, but after Theon insists on several bites of oat porridge, some colour returns to Jon’s face, and his hands stop shaking.

Wex, like Theon, hovers. He brings Jon ale that Jon accepts but does not finish. At one point to gain Theon's notice, the boy grabs his lord's sleeve and tugs, pointing nervously at Jon and making some complicated gesture, but Theon cannot understand him.

“He’ll be alright,” Theon offers, though he does not sound like a captain anymore. 

Wex frowns. Theon does not think he believes him, and he cannot blame the boy. He does not believe himself, either.

Theon refuses to leave the cabin, not so long as Jon is here. Hang them all, he’ll not leave Jon alone one more instant on this ship. What if there is more than one cutthroat traitor aboard the _Sea Bitch_ , and Theon will not be so lucky twice? He allows Wex to do most chores for him, writing out instructions to be passed to Dagmer. At one point Wex comes in with food for Theon, but he waves it away. Though aware of his hypocrisy, he is not hungry.

As long as the day is, it does not quell the fire in Theon’s blood. Panic enmeshed so intricately with thrill that he cannot separate the two. Jon had saved him, stood between them, killed another man for him. It makes his head swim even hours later, as nightfall pulls Jon into bed.

For once, Theon does not argue when Jon complains of being tired. He nods, draws the quilts around him and kisses him sweetly as he has done every night since Jon’s return from Winterfell, though this time Jon does not push him away, instead reaches for his hand as Theon steps back. When Theon takes it, Jon squeezes his fingers.

“I love you, Theon,” he whispers, half-asleep.

“And I you,” Theon answers in a whisper, kissing his temple. He does not move away until Jon’s hand slips from his own. 

Quiet as he can be, Theon returns to his carved desk chair to take up his vigil. At one point, he sends Wex to bring him wine. He does, and with a forced smile of gratitude, Theon relieves the boy to his bunk. 

Watching Jon, Theon is jealous. He sleeps so soundly after such a trying day. Instead of exhausted, Theon is restless. A part of him wants to leap over the railings and swim until dawn.

Jon is so beautiful curled in Theon’s bed. Whatever burden he has carried all the way from Winterfell melts away in sleep. In the galley, knife in hand, just hours ago, Jon had looked half-wild, half-mad. Streaked with Aelfon Codd’s blood, voice hoarse as he screamed. Nothing at all like this peaceful creature asleep in their bunk.

Theon watches him breathe, taking a long pull from the wineskin in his hand. It is a good vintage, he is told, but the wine is sour on his tongue. But no matter. This night, he does not drink it for the taste.

Well after midnight, with the wineskin empty and sleep impossible, Theon sneaks out of their cabin and climbs the ladder up onto the deck. He needs fresh air. Needs cold wind on his face. 

The men taking their shifts on deck do not disturb him. The hour is late enough that he is needed for nothing, and it is chilly enough that most of the men on shift huddle beneath thick woolen blankets that keep the seaspray off.

Circling the deck at the bow, Theon looks out at the waves. Even in the moonlight, he can see how gentle they lap at the hull, rocking the ship softly as if it were a babe in its mother’s arms. The sea is calm tonight. The Drowned God is appeased by their sacrifice. The wind tickles Theon’s hair over his ears as he rests his elbows on the railing, watching the ocean sway beneath starlight.

His mind is clearer now, giving him the space to be furious with himself. This day has been a parade of misjudgement. Perhaps he is as weak and pitiful as his Uncle Euron always insisted. It is what he wants, after all — to be ravished and taken like an enemy’s widow. That shames him more than anything. He tells himself that Jon would not judge him for it. He has never judged anything Theon has wanted before. 

Still, the promise rings false in Theon's own mind. With how Jon reacted, so shaken and upset, Theon cannot bear to admit it to himself.

Theon is chewing distractedly on the inside of his cheek when he feels a presence at his side. He clenches his eyes shut and counts slowly, waiting for whoever it is to walk away without speaking to him.

“It’s late,” Dagmer says flatly.

Theon releases a long breath. He does not open his eyes. “Trouble sleeping.”

“Aye, any man would,” Dagmer tells him seriously. “No man can watch his back in sleep.”

“I couldn’t even watch mine while awake,” Theon grumbles to himself, opening his eyes. 

“May be true,” Dagmer allows as Theon looks at him, “but it matters not, you had someone else looking after it for you.”

It’s a comfort to hear. Theon turns back to the dark ocean sliding by, glittering under starlight. For a moment, they share the silence.

“You did well today, boy,” Dagmer tells him at last, leaning back against the railing. “What Codd did, it shall shame him in death. But you…”

Nape burning, Theon looks away. “I did nothing. It was Jon who slew him.”

“Mayhaps he did. I was not there. But I speak of what you did afterward. The men, the crew, they are impressed by you, for what you did. They even seem to be impressed by your salt wife now, for his loyalty.”

That sounds mad. “Are they?”

“Aye, you may have been right to scold my distrust of him. Your bastard boy was fair, and you allowed that of him. You could have killed Codd outright when first he touched your boy, but you offered him the chance to absolve himself. One that he squandered. No man here will say you weren’t fair with him.”

Theon scoffs. He remembers Jon gently talking him out of murdering Codd for his first offence. He does not bring it up to Dagmer. 

“It was right of you,” Dagmer assures. “Fair but fierce, and not a man here will say otherwise. To your sister or to any man. A captain’s power comes not from his name or his blood, but from the support of his crew. If you endeavour for your men’s interests, they will endeavour for yours the same.” 

“And have I endeavoured for the crew’s interest?”

“It is not a bloody and glorious first voyage, but these are peacetimes. You showed them fairness, and good sailing. A fortnight’s revelry ashore and gifts from the mainland. And, it must be said, the favour of your lord sister and the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.”

Theon chuckles without mirth. “All anyone has ever wanted from me is the favour of other people, it seems.”

“Well, you are still here, lad. That is more than what most men get. You have managed to wield it in your defense as good as any sword. Good to see that life in the North has not drained you of your ironborn blood.”

Theon smiles, but as he turns to face him, Dagmer is already left.

“Get some sleep, Captain.”

Theon is not out much longer before the wind grows too cold to stand, and he returns below deck to his cabin. As he enters the cabin, Jon does not stir, has not seemed to have moved at all. The sight of him asleep brings back the guilt of what Theon had done before. Weight sinks into his bones as he quietly removes his boots and doublet. Careful as he can, Theon creeps beside him into their bunk, releasing a slow breath as Jon shifts to curl against him. He hopes that in the morning, he will not detest himself so.


End file.
